by Connie Mason
Then slowly, coconut palms, bananas, and bamboo gave way to cane fields, ringed with the omnipotent jungle whose tall trees were like sentinels standing guard. An eerie feeling came over Gabby, for now she understood just how isolated life would be on the plantation.
Bellefontaine sat high on a cliff above the sea, the surf beating on the grayish sand below visible from the long driveway leading to the house. As they turned into the gates, Gabby saw a long avenue bordered by palms and a low growing hedge abloom with bright colored flowers. She drew in her breath sharply at her first glimpse of the house, an Indian style mansion rising majestically two stories into the air. It was constructed of thick stone with rows of windows whose shutters were flung open to catch the faintest whisper of a breeze. A pillared veranda ran the length of the building, shielding the rooms within from the sun.
“It… it’s magnificent,” stammered Gabby, finally finding just the right word to describe the imposing structure.
“It may be imposing,” laughed Philippe, “but it is also cool and comfortable.”
When they halted before the house, Gabby exclaimed in delight over the expanse of grassy lawn and the formal garden displaying every plant imaginable in every color of the rainbow. Shrubs and bushes were laid out in a geometric design that must take at least five men to maintain adequately. A low stone wall held back the jungle. In the distance she could see stables and outbuildings.
Philippe had just handed her down from the carriage when suddenly a slim, golden-skinned figure dashed from the house and flung herself headlong into his arms, purposefully ignoring Gabby who fought against waves of vertigo that had assailed her the moment her feet touched the ground. As if from a long distance, she watched the warm welcome tendered by the girl, their voices receding farther and farther into the background; the girl’s shapely, bare legs flashing alluringly in the dying rays of the sun as Philippe placed his hands about her tiny waist and whirled her around, jupe skirts flying, full, ripe breasts bouncing, evidently delighted to see her.
The girl squealed in delight, tiny, pearl-like teeth bared, full, red lips parted. “But why have you stayed away from your Amalie so long, mon amour?” she asked breathlessly.
“If I had but known what an exuberant welcome awaited me I would have hurried back sooner,” Philippe teased, giving her pert nose an affectionate tweak. Then, as if suddenly remembering he had a wife, he reluctantly released the lithe body pressed close to his muscular form and turned to Gabby who by now was clutching desperately to the side of the carriage, intuitively aware that her happiness and the welfare of her unborn child depended upon the capricious whims of a man who evidently expected her to share his affections with his mistress!
“Ma petite,” said Philippe, pushing the golden girl forward, “this is Amalie, the daughter of Tante Louise and Gerard.”
Amalie’s name was on her lips as everything around her dimmed and she pitched forward, her crumpling body caught up by Philippe only moments before she hit the ground.
Gabby slowly surfaced into consciousness aware of a humming in her ears. After a few moments she realized that the humming was nothing but low pitched voices speaking in quiet tones. She recognized Philippe’s voice immediately but not that of the female speaking to him. Because her eyes remained closed the couple talked freely, thinking her still asleep,
“The long, hot trip was tiring for the petite fille, especially in view of her condition. But she will be fine, Monsieur Philippe, as soon as Tante Louise gets one of her tsannes into her stomach.” It was difficult for Gabby to follow the patois.
“I hope you are right, Tante,” said Philippe worriedly.
“Dr. Renaud assured me she was in good health and should encounter no problems with her pregnancy.”
“She is so young,” added Tante Louise thoughtfully.
Philippe shot her a sharp look. “I admit that Gabby is young and has much to learn,” he said brusquely. “I did not think she would conceive so soon but we both welcome this child.”
Tante Louise’s knowing black eyes studied Philippe until he became restive under her scrutiny. She knew him better than he knew himself. “May I speak frankly, Monsieur Philippe?” she asked, intending to speak her mind no matter what.
“When have you hesitated to do otherwise?” Philippe answered tartly.
“Surely you must realize that Amalie will not take kindly to your wife. It would have been best for everyone if she were to remain in St. Pierre. Or else send Amalie away. She is my own daughter and I know her well,” she muttered ominously.
“Amalie appeared to take my marriage well,” replied Philippe with typical male conceit.
“You do not know my daughter if you think she accepted your wife,” Tante Louise warned.
“You worry unnecessarily,” Philippe chided, more upset by his housekeeper’s words than he cared to admit.
“You must think of your petite wife and your child.”
“What makes you think I do not?” Philippe scowled, annoyed by the turn the conversation was taking.
Tante Louise wagged her turbaned head from side to side in apparent disgust. “Do not be taken in by Amalie’s wiles. She will never reconcile herself to the idea that you have a wife. What will Madame Gabby’s reaction be to Amalie? How will it affect your child?”
“Madame Gabby is my concern, as is my child,” Philippe asserted with a hint of underlying anger in his voice.
“Forgive my boldness, Monsieur Philippe, but it is your bride I think of now, not my daughter.” The strong-featured black woman looked at her master with bold eyes, holding no hint of subservience. Her next words stunned Philippe. “What place will Amalie have in your household now that you have a wife? Will she continue to warm your bed?”
“You go too far!” Philippe exploded angrily, unaware that Gabby was listening intently to the exchange.
“Forgive me. Monsieur, but I think only of your wife; Amalie can take care of herself but your petite fille seems unprepared to face the harsh realities of life. Perhaps it would be better for all concerned to send Amalie away.”
“This is Amalie’s home! This is where she belongs!” retorted Philippe unreasonably. “I will not send her away, but you can rest assured that I have no plans to take her into my bed again. I no longer have need of a mistress, even one as tempting and bewitching as your Amalie.” Tante Louise clearly remained skeptical despite Philippe’s declaration.
Gabby’s gasp of surprise at Philippe’s announcement immediately alerted the speakers. Almost instantly Philippe was beside her, followed by a tall, handsome black woman whose commanding presence seemed to fill the room. She was large without being fat and her wrinkleless face was a well-oiled ebony. It was difficult for Gabby to believe that the petite, golden-skinned Amalie was this woman’s daughter. She stood a majestic six feet tall with her multicolored turban adding at least another six inches. Her ponderous breasts were like ripe melons and her hands were as large as Philippe’s. She pushed Philippe aside with ease as she bent over Gabby, studying her from large, velvet eyes as black as Hades.
“Ah, ma petite, you are awake,” she crooned in a gentle, sing-song voice using the patois Gabby was just beginning to understand. “You are home where you belong and Tante Louise will take good care of you and the babe.”
Gabby made to get out of bed but one of the big woman’s hands held her captive to the mattress. “No, no, you must rest,” she insisted firmly. Then she turned to Philippe and ordered brusquely, “You, Monsieur Philippe, shall see that your petite fille remains in bed.” Gabby watched in awe as the woman strode majestically from the room.
Gabby studied her surroundings and what she could see in the dim light pleased her, though the room seemed somewhat masculine with its massive pieces of furniture. A gentle breeze from opened windows lining the opposite ends of the room cooled her feverish skin. Her eyes finally alit on Philippe hovering over her.
“How do you feel, cherie?” he asked solicitously. “You gave
us all quite a fright.”
“Well enough, Philippe,” she responded weakly. “But Tante Louise is right, it would be best if I remained in bed for a day or two. I hadn’t realized the trip to the plantation would be so arduous. I wouldn’t want to do anything to harm the babe.”
“Certainly you must rest, ma petite,” Philippe readily agreed, relieved that she wasn’t about to protest the enforced bed rest he was going to insist upon. Placing a chaste kiss on Gabby’s forehead he tiptoed from the room anxious to confer with his overseer whom he had not yet spoken with. Sugar cane harvest was in full swing and the field hands were working around the clock. Soon they would begin distilling rum in the big cauldrons in a building adjacent to the cane fields, and he knew his days as well as many nights would be taken up with duties.
Lulled into sleep by one of Tante Louise’s soothing tisanes Gabby was unaware that Philippe had come in much later and taken his place beside her in the big bed, cradling her in his arms through the long night. He was already gone when she awoke the next morning, the only visible sign that he had been in the bed with her the indentation his head made on the pillow. Because her weakness still persisted, Tante Louise ordained that she must remain in bed several days, and Philippe echoed her words.
In any event, Gabby found herself more or less isolated while the cane harvest continued at a frantic pace. Even the house servants were pressed into service and she saw little of anyone except Tante Louise. When she saw Philippe in the evening, he seemed brusque and preoccupied. He had not attempted to make love to her since their arrival at Bellefontaine, falling in bed at night too tired even to talk. At times he remained away the entire night and Gabby had wild imaginings of him with the beauteous Amalie. Somehow his words to Tante Louise insisting he had no need for a mistress held little comfort. Soon she would be large with child and she wondered if Philippe would take up with his mistress when her grotesque body repelled him.
Once Gabby’s health and vitality were restored she set out to explore all the rooms of the house, from the wine cellar to the huge ballroom on the upper floor. Tante Louise explained to her that all the rooms were in a single line with a veranda on either side to catch the slightest breeze. The rooms were light and airy with pastel colors on the walls. The furniture throughout most of the house was of French design fashioned mostly from native woods. Gabby was delighted with the house and surprised at the large staff of servants it took to run it.
When Gabby met Tante Louise’s husband, Gerard, she was shocked. The man towered above his six foot wife with lofty majesty; a crop of grizzled, white hair hugged his large head as well as his chin. The muscles that rippled along his massive torso and thighs were awesome, but they were not the most amazing thing about the powerful slave. The most incredible, the most shocking, was his skin. He was white! As white, or nearly as white, as to be indistinguishable from Philippe or herself. Now she understood Amalie’s golden complexion.
As Gabby learned her way around the house she realized that there would be little if anything to occupy her time. She was not about to usurp Tante Louise’s position or insert her authority into such a well-run establishment. Nevertheless, she adapted easily to the indolent life of a planter’s wife expecting her first child. She was cosseted and pampered and learned to live with the intense heat, even enjoying the long afternoon naps when Philippe usually joined her in the big bed.
Even after Gabby had recovered from her early illness, Philippe still seemed reluctant to approach her with his lovemaking, fearing it would precipitate another attack of weakness and endanger the child. One day Gabby took it upon herself to initiate the resumption of their former intimacy, hinting that their loving would neither hurt the child nor harm her. The first time they made love, Philippe held her like a fragile doll, afraid she would break. But soon her desire turned his own passion into a blazing inferno. He had lain beside her far too many nights, holding her close, feeling her body warmly curled next to his, yet hesitant to approach her. He tried to be gentle but they were soon eagerly devouring one another. When at last he pierced her softness, she gasped with pleasure as she rose to meet him. Swiftly he brought her to completion before crying out his own joy. After that they made love regularly, Philippe’s fatigue vanishing the moment he drew Gabby into his arms.
Gabby’s first visitors at Bellefontaine were Marcel Duvall’s sisters, Honore and Linette. She was completely captivated by the two high-spirited girls who were ecstatic to find that Philippe’s wife was near their own age. Honore, the youngest, was seventeen. Her pert face and saucy manner soon had Gabby smiling. Auburn curls fell in sausage like rolls around her pixie face and she stared at the world through vivid, blue eyes. Linette, at nineteen, seemed much more mature but nonetheless beautiful. Her raven waves cascading down her back were held in place by a ribbon. Her green eyes were startling in their clarity and her petulant, sensuous mouth reminded Gabby of Marcel. Linette was to be married soon after the new year. Though she had never met her husband-to-be, she unquestioningly trusted her brother’s judgment in arranging the match. After marriage Linette would live in France with her husband leaving Honore alone at Le Chateau until a suitable marriage could be arranged for the younger girl.
From the sisters Gabby learned that when on Martinique Marcel resided mainly in St. Pierre, preferring the townhouse and the active social life of the city to the dull country existence of the gentleman planter. Several times a year the girls would join their brother, spending days on end visiting friends, shopping, and attending the theater. Carnival season always found them in St. Pierre, for Marcel was an indulgent guardian of his young sisters. From them she also learned that Marcel had returned to Martinique shortly after she and Philippe.
The Duvall girls were frequent visitors to Bellefontaine and as long as Marcel remained in St. Pierre Gabby was free to return their visits. Le Chateau proved to be as well run and well kept as Bellefontaine despite the fact that Marcel left the running of it to his overseer and his sisters.
The cane had been harvested and not any too soon. The rains began with drenching regularity, commencing nearly every morning with torrential downpours but clearing up by midday when the sun appeared high in the sky. Gabby found she was able to bear the dampness and gloom only because of the breaks between rainy days lasting anywhere from thirty-six to forty-eight hours, enabling her to resume her visits with the Duvall sisters.
Gabby had neither seen nor heard from Amalie since that day she arrived at Bellefomaine. If she was still on the plantation there was no evidence of it. Perhaps Philippe had followed Tante Louise’s advice and sent her away. Philippe was still absent much of the day, and since the harvest had been completed often traveled into St. Pierre, remaining at the townhouse several days at a time. His fleet of ships was constantly coming and going with cargo to all parts of the world and Gabby began to realize the immensity of his wealth and holdings. With all his prosperity any girl on the island would have jumped at the chance to become his wife, yet he had traveled all the way to France for his bride. It seemed incongruous that he should have paid for what would have been freely given by any woman in her right mind.
Though she was somewhat in awe of Tante Louise, the woman daily proved her devotion to Gabby and her unborn child. She watched over her petite fille as if she were her own daughter and daily concocted delicacies to tempt Gabby’s sluggish appetite, the heat often dulling her taste for food. Through it all Gabby managed to thrive as did the babe within her.
The first time she had felt movement in her womb her startled cry awakened Philippe who had been sleeping soundly beside her. He stared at her in wonder as he rested his hand lightly on the soft mound of her stomach and felt for himself the fluttering of the tiny life they had created.
“It’s a boy, Gabby,” Philipe proudly proclaimed. “And after this one we shall have another, then another…”
“Philippe,” Gabby chided gently, “I am not sure I wish to produce a child a year.” Although her words we
re said jokingly, the thought was sobering. Would she become a brood mare only to be caste aside when she was worn out in favor of Amalie or another like her?
“Having children is a natural culmination of our passionate natures,” Philippe said dryly. “Would you have me take a mistress so that you might be spared the rigors of child-bearing? Of what use would you be to me, then?” he asked with overbearing arrogance.
Gabby was stunned into silence. Just when she thought herself free from his cruelty he taunted her with threats of a mistress, calling her useless if she failed to serve her purpose in life.
Seeing her face, Philippe was immediately contrite. What made him hurt her when she deserved much better? he wondered, hating his own thoughtless words. She had adapted admirably to the isolation of the plantation and welcomed the coming child despite her tender years. She had even learned to respond to his lovemaking with an ardor that matched his own. Why then this compelling need to punish her? In his original plans Gabby was meant to play a minor role in his life. But she had become much more. Could it be he was afraid to show his love? Did thoughts of Cecily still haunt him?
“I’m sorry, cherie,” Philippe murmured contritely. “I don’t know what comes over me at times. I would not deliberately hurt you. Please believe me.”
Gabby forgave but did not forget.
That night was the first time Gabby became aware of the drums. She had heard about Voodoo or Obeah, snake worship as it was practiced here on Martinique. She had assumed that the natives were Catholics, like the French, but Philippe had informed her they were very much involved in Obeah as well as Catholicism when it served their purpose. The priests, he explained, tried to flog Obeah out of the slaves but were unsuccessful. No one on the island scoffs at the Obcah curse, she had learned.
