The Danice Allen Anthology

by Danice Allen

  Lucien had even brought Anne’s abigail, Sarah, who sat with them now in the carriage. He seemed determined to keep up appearances for the sake of Anne’s reputation. Her reputation was also the reason that they were staying at Bocage instead of his apartments at the St. Charles Hotel. Even though Anne had given up thinking of her reputation days ago, she thought his gallant concern was quite sweet. Reggie would appreciate it.

  Despite the fine day, the bright sun, the chirping of birds, and the general tranquility of her surroundings, Anne’s stomach churned with nervousness. She was meeting Lucien’s family for the first time, and she had a pretty good idea what they thought of British people—which was much the same as they thought of Americans. They considered them as coming from an inferior genealogy.

  Last night had been bliss, but today reality reared its ugly head. Anne had to face the fact that Reggie had the yellow fever and might die, that she was banned from the house, not even allowed to see him, and, finally, that she was going to have to stay at Bocage till it was considered safe to return to Prytania Street. These were all depressing facts.

  The fact that Lucien had told her he loved her, however, made everything easier to bear. She was deliriously happy in the knowledge that they’d be sharing a future together. They had lain awake last night for hours after their lovemaking, discussing their move to Canada, his relationship with his family, and many other things they’d not had the time or freedom to discuss before. She knew he was dreading this final good-bye to Bocage, to his family, to his father in particular. There were painful things that needed to be said after years of silence.

  The carriage stopped directly in front of the house, and Lucien stepped out first, turning and extending his hand to Anne with an encouraging smile. She tried to smile back, stepped out, then waited with downcast eyes while he helped Sarah alight, too. Their unexpected arrival must have made quite a stir inside, because several of Lucien’s family were congregating at the front door. Perhaps they’d been sitting together eating a late lunch.

  Because of Sarah’s presence in the carriage, Lucien had kept their conversation general throughout the short journey to Bocage. Sarah was probably dumbfounded by her mistress’s sudden intimacy with the likes of Dandy Delacroix, but Anne certainly couldn’t explain.

  Looking up at the long gallery as the Delacroixs filed out and lined up to stare, Anne could well imagine the astonishment of Lucien’s family, too. She and Lucien had certainly shown no preference for each other, or even a particular friendship, in public.

  Lucien took Anne’s arm and carefully escorted her, in the Dandy’s usual languishing pace, up the steps to the gallery, his cane swinging on his outside elbow. Standing at the forefront of this imposing group of raven-haired, dark-eyed, astonishingly attractive people, was the paterfamilias—Lucien’s father.

  Tall, slim, and silver-haired, Monsieur Delacroix was an older version of Lucien. He was very handsome, but his expression was grim and unyielding. He did not return Anne’s tentative smile. “Père,” greeted Lucien, tipping his hat.

  His father’s mouth turned down in a moue of distaste. “Bonjour, Lucien. To what do we owe this rare visit? What brings you to Bocage?”

  “To introduce you to my fiancee, of course.”

  “This is so sudden, Lucien!” said his mother.

  “Oui,” said Lucien, his expression softening. He bent and kissed her cheek. “I know it is sudden. I just discovered myself that I was in love with Mademoiselle Weston.” He turned to Anne with a charming, insouciant smile. “How do the Americans say it? It has been a whirlwind romance, oui?” Then he turned back to his mother. “Maman, I trust you will show Anne the meaning of a true Creole welcome.”

  “She’s staying here?” She cast Anne a fleeting, uncertain smile. “It’s not that I’m displeased, tu comprend? But, Lucien, this is not the customary way to conduct a betrothal!”

  “There are unusual circumstances. Anne’s uncle—her guardian—has come down with yellow fever.”

  Lucien’s sisters gasped, looking fearful. His mother appeared concerned and sympathetic. Anne found herself warming to the pretty Creole woman. Lucien must have inherited his compassionate nature from her.

  “Naturally Anne can’t return to the house until he’s quite recovered.”

  “Of course not,” said his mother, taking Anne’s hand and squeezing it. “This is difficult for you, n’est-ce pas? I think you love your uncle very much.”

  Anne felt her eyes smart with the beginning of tears. Sincere sympathy was always her undoing. “Yes, Madame Delacroix, I do.”

  She squeezed Anne’s hand again. “Pauvre fille.”

  Monsieur Delacroix spoke up, the sudden insertion of his deep voice into the conversation startling Anne. “Who is your uncle, Miss Weston? Where does he live?”

  “My uncle is Reginald Weston, sir, and we live at my aunt’s house on Prytania Street.”

  She saw his brows rise at the mention of Prytania Street, part of the American District of town. In fact, his brows had begun to rise the minute she started speaking. Her accent was obviously British.

  “Katherine Grimms is my aunt,” she added. She liked Lucien’s mother, but she had doubts about being able to rustle up some affection for his father. And if he was going to disapprove of her, he might as well have all the damaging details. Everyone knew Katherine was anti-slavery.

  They were all staring at her, disbelief and confusion written on their faces. Lucien’s brother, Etienne, looked especially incredulous and disapproving. Anne had no doubt Etienne would one day fill his father’s shoes very well as master of Bocage. Much better than Lucien could ever do, or would ever want to do.

  Standing there was becoming rather awkward. Finally Lucien spoke up. “Mon Dieu, are we going to remain on the porch all day?” he drawled, his eyelids drooping disdainfully. “Surely, Maman, we can offer my bride-to-be a little refreshment? Perhaps a mint julep”—he got a wicked gleam in his eye—“or a good strong cup of English tea?”

  This comment recalled his mother to the duty of Southern hospitality. Anne was treated very nicely for the next hour, plied with refreshments. Lucien’s mother and sisters admired her gown, and even Etienne spoke a polite though brief word to her. Then she was shown to her room and left to rest till dinner.

  Sarah was downstairs in the kitchen, and Anne was alone in the beautifully furnished bedchamber. She immediately began to miss Lucien. Without his supportive presence, she worried herself sick over Reggie. She missed Reggie dreadfully, too, and Aunt Katherine. She missed her family.

  Anne moved to the window and looked out over the closely scythed lawns, the lush foliage, and handsome buildings that were all part of Bocage. Despite its beauty, she understood Lucien’s alienation from this place. He’d been raised here, but he’d never really belonged, never felt at home.

  She could never feel at home here, either. She and Lucien were alike in this. They could never be part of a racist society. Someday slavery would be abolished, but racism would probably persist for decades. In the meantime Anne knew that she and Lucien would have to find a home somewhere else. In Canada. But first he must say good-bye.

  Lucien paused outside the thick-paneled door of the library, his hand still on the cut-glass knob. The interview with his father had been just as painful as he’d anticipated. But it had been inevitable and necessary. His father must know exactly how he stood on important issues.

  For Lucien, it had been a sort of purging, a cleansing. Actually making his father understand why he felt the way he did about certain things had been too much to hope for, of course, and not worth attempting. But by being totally honest with his father for the first time in his life, he could now start fresh—be his own man, make his own way.

  He took a deep breath and strode down the hall. Taking the steps two at a time, he quickly ascended the stairs to the upper floor and Anne’s temporary bedchamber. He didn’t bother to knock but simply went inside, closing the door softly behind
him.

  Anne was standing at the window, looking out over the extensive grounds. She did not turn as he approached. He slid his arms around her waist, pulling her against his heart. Still she did not speak, only leaned her head against his chest and covered his hands with hers.

  “I could have had all this someday, Anne, but I’ve told my father to bequeath it to Etienne. Do you think I should regret giving it up?”

  “Do you regret it?”

  “No. I have some wonderful childhood memories, but I can take them with me.”

  “Did you … settle things with your father?”

  Lucien’s voice became grim. “Yes. He’s glad to see me go now that I’ve given him no hope of changing into the kind of man he admires.”

  “A man like himself, perhaps?”

  He sighed. “Yes.”

  Anne turned in Lucien’s arms, sliding her arms around his neck. “I’m sorry, Lucien. I’m sorry you have to leave your home like this. I’m sorry you and your father couldn’t be closer. Your mother will be sad to see you go. She loves you very much.”

  Lucien smiled weakly. “That only makes it harder, Anne.”

  She reached up on tiptoe and kissed him. “I’ll always be a support for you, Lucien. I’m your family now.” She blushed prettily, averting her gaze to his vest, where she toyed with one of his buttons. “And there will be children.”

  He touched the underside of her chin with his finger, urging her to look up at him. He smiled down at her. “But first, cher, there must be lots of practicing.” He lifted her and carried her to the bed.

  “Good God, what’s that stench?”

  Half-dozing in the chair beside Reggie’s bed, Katherine jumped up at the sound of that dear, querulous voice. Reggie’s eyes were open, blinking against the small amount of sunshine peeking through the shuttered windows. After three days of uncertainty and fear, Katherine knew now that Reggie would live. She wanted to cry with happiness, but she laughed instead.

  “It’s either you or me, Reginald,” she said.

  He turned his face to her slowly, as if it still hurt a little. He squinted. “Where are my spectacles?”

  Katherine picked up Reggie’s spectacles from the bedside table and carefully put them on him. He took a moment to focus, then said, “You look like hell, Katherine.”

  She laughed again. “I know. I finally combed my hair—I think it was yesterday—but I’ve had very little time to fuss over my appearance, you see. I’ve been taking care of you.”

  Reggie’s brows lowered. He turned his head again, slowly, looking about the room as if he were trying to get his bearings. “This is my bedchamber, but where’s James? And what are you doing in here? I recall I had a headache…” He glanced down, and Katherine would have given a hundred dollars to have his expression etched in ink to keep forever. “My God!” he croaked. “Where are my clothes?”

  Katherine bit her lip to keep from laughing again and quickly covered him with a thin sheet. “Armande thought it best for you to remain uncovered. You were burning up with fever.”

  Mortified, his eyes averted, Reggie lifted a weak hand to tug distractedly on his mustache. “Who the hell is Armande?”

  “Your doctor. And I’ve been your nurse. You’ve had the yellow fever. There’s no need to be embarrassed by your nakedness—”

  “My God!” he choked out again.

  “—because I’ve only thought of you as a patient,” she lied. “I tried to keep you as clean as possible—”

  “May the saints preserve me!”

  “—but I’m quite sure you’ll want a bath. I know I do!”

  At Reggie’s startled look, Katherine stifled a giggle, saying, “Oh, don’t worry. I don’t plan to bathe you, or bathe with you. I’m convinced you don’t have the strength just yet for either eventuality.”

  “B’gad!”

  “Now that you’re over the crisis, I’ll call James to attend to your needs. Armande will be back shortly, too, and I know he’ll want to examine you thoroughly. And I can send word to Anne that it’s all right to come home. I know that will be good news to her. She’s been worried sick about you.”

  “Where is Anne?” Reggie managed to bluster, still tugging rather violently on his mustache.

  Katherine bustled about happily, tucking in his sheet, plumping his pillows. “She’s at Bocage.”

  Reggie concentrated, still a little woozy. “That’s Delacroix’s plantation, isn’t it?”

  “The very same. You’ll be happy to know she’s going to marry him.”

  “Marry who, for heaven’s sake?”

  “Why, Delacroix, of course. You always liked him. But I daresay there are a few things we’ll have to tell you before the wedding.”

  “The wedding? It’s already planned? How long have I been sick, Katherine?”

  “Three horrible days and nights.” Katherine stopped bustling and stood over Reggie, pushing a long, lank strand of hair out of her eyes. She couldn’t help it. She smiled like an idiot. “Oh, Reggie,” she gushed, “I’m so glad you’re alive!”

  Reggie looked up at a disheveled woman with dark circles under eyes that were bright with tears. He’d never seen anyone more beautiful or desirable in his life. And there he lay, naked, weak, as little able to make love as a eunuch. But he had to tell her something, and he had to tell her now. “Katherine,” he said. “I suspect that I owe you my life.”

  She shook her head, disclaiming any credit. It was just like her, he thought.

  “And despite all you’ve done for me already, I have to ask you for one more favor.”

  “What, Reggie? Do you want a drink? Are you hungry?”

  “No, my dear. I’m not hungry, I’m in love. With you, of all people.”

  “Reggie!”

  “And the favor I’m asking is this … Will you do me the honor of making me husband number four?”

  “You’re still delirious!”

  “No, I’ve never been more lucid in my life.”

  “Reggie!”

  Reggie now seemed in grave danger of being mauled. Mauling and being mauled was something he looked forward to once he got his strength back, and once he was properly bathed and scented. But not now. He held up his hands, and with a loving look warned his bride-to-be, “Not without my bath first, Katherine. Please send for James.”

  With much enthusiasm, Katherine left the room to look for James. The sooner Reggie bathed, the sooner she could kiss that dear old face of his.

  Epilogue

  Anne sat in the tiny cabin on the top deck of the River Belle waiting for her husband. It was the best cabin on the boat, according to the captain. But even for the best, it was small and the furnishings simple. They were traveling economically, saving their money to build a house and start a logging business in Hamilton, a booming little town in southeast Ontario.

  Anne loved the cabin because it was where she and Lucien would begin their honeymoon. At the last stop, Lucien had had the room filled with flowers picked from the local Tunica Hills: wild azalea, Indian pipe, cinnamon fern, and sunflowers. Anne was touched and thrilled by this romantic gesture and couldn’t wait to show her husband just how much she loved him.

  As she brushed her hair, she remembered the wedding. Or, she should say, the double wedding. Katherine and Reggie had tied the nuptial knot, too. It had been a simple affair in Aunt Katherine’s drawing room, attended by a select few.

  Lucien’s mother and sisters had come to the wedding, but his father and Etienne had chosen not to attend. This had not surprised Lucien, and he had refused to let it spoil his happiness. He had said fond farewells to his mother and sisters, philosophically resigned to the fact that he might never see them again.

  Their special day was not marred by concern over Jeffrey, either. He had taken Lucien’s threats seriously and left town the day after Bodine’s arrest.

  Katherine’s house had been sold practically overnight to a rich American who had coveted the elegant mansion for years. He boug
ht everything Katherine would sell, including most of the furniture and artwork. Many of the servants stayed on, too. The things Katherine took with her were the treasures she’d collected in her travels, family paintings, and mementoes of her three previous marriages.

  Somehow in the shuffle, she’d left her cane behind. When Reggie had commented on this, she’d simply said, “Oh, I don’t need it. I never did, you know.”

  Katherine and Reggie planned to open a school in Hamilton. Lucien intended to hire for his logging establishment many former slaves who had escaped to Canada, and Katherine knew a school in the area would be needed to educate their children. It would be open to the French, the Indians, the blacks, and whoever else showed up.

  Armande was going to be the first physician in the primitive area, and Christian, recovering from the opium addiction and glad for a fresh start and the forgiveness of his friends, was going to assist him.

  Having brushed her hair to glossy softness, Anne changed into the nightgown Aunt Katherine had given her as a wedding present. The nightgown was beautiful, made of white silk with puffed sleeves and a low decolletage. In fact, it was very similar to the angel costume she’d worn to the Bouviers’ masquerade ball. As giddy as a schoolgirl, she arranged herself in an alluring pose on the bed and waited for Lucien.

  When he returned, he had in one large, beautiful hand a bottle of wine and two goblets, and in the other hand a half-dozen candles. His eyes lighted up when he saw her. “My naughty angel,” he said with satisfaction.

  She eyed him complacently. Lucien Delacroix was a presence to be reckoned with. He was very handsome, very masculine in a finely tailored black suit, with an ivory brocade vest and white shirt. “My dashing outlaw,” she replied.

  “Not anymore, Anne,” he said wryly, setting down the bottle and goblets, then filling a candelabra with the half-dozen candles. “Just plain Lucien.”

  “Just plain Lucien,” she repeated, smiling. “What a contrast in terms. There’s nothing plain about you, my dear husband.”