“I am!” she answered positively. She had convinced herself that it was true.
The final puff of gold dust had shimmered the last web only moments before the guests began arriving for the evening ceremony. They came from the neighboring sugar plantations by every means of transportation, from horseback to landaus and curricles. On. elderly matron, who mistrusted horse-drawn vehicles in any form, had six brawny slaves carry her the twenty miles from her country house in her sedan chair. Those who came from New Orleans arrived by boat and were met at the Belle Pointe landing in flower-bedecked carts and carriages.
Nicolette’s nerves danced inside her skin to the thundering beat of her heart. The moment was speeding toward her at a dizzying velocity. She gripped the bedpost for an instant, trying to steady her trembling hands. She was consumed with doubts, worries, and unbidden memories of Jean Laffite. Premarital jitters, she thought to herself. Nothing more! How did brides survive these final hours? she wondered.
Her large bedroom of rose, white, and gold bustled with bodies and feverish activity. Her mother and Gabrielle vied for the right to make final decisions.
“No! No, Celeste!” Francine Vernet argued with the octoroon hairdresser brought from New Orleans. “The curls you have brought forward should be pinned back so that Nicolette’s face is more prominent to everyone’s view!”
“Sacrebleu, Frannie! Let the woman do her job!” Gabrielle scolded, then went on to instruct Celeste on what she thought should be done.
“Please, please! Don’t fight over me!” Nicolette begged. “I need some peace, some quiet!”
“Nikki is right, of course,” Gabrielle agreed. “Frannie, you should be downstairs with Claude, greeting the guests. Hurry along now! I’ve supervised Nicolette for the past two years. I can certainly manage things here.”
Francine Vernet looked suddenly stricken. “Oh, but there are things a mother should tell her daughter at this time. I really meant to explain… Oh, dear! I think I’m getting a migraine!”
Nicolette put her arms gently around her flustered mother. “Don’t make yourself ill, Maman. And don’t worry about what you should have told me at this late date. I’ll manage. Perhaps it would be best if you joined Papa now.”
The mother of the bride, nervous and near tears, kissed her daughter quickly and offered her a grateful smile.
“You look très belle, ma filler Madame Vernet said before she hurried from the room.
“Bien!” Gabrielle sighed, closing the door after her sister. “Poor Frannie! We may survive this, but I’m not sure she will. Come now, Nikki. Let me look at you and see that all is ready.”
Nicolette stood and turned slowly, a vision of snowy silk and heirloom lace. Her gown—the same that her mother had worn—fell from a high band of satin ribbon, which clutched her body just below her breasts. The square neckline was covered demurely with antique lace rising to her throat. Long sleeves tapered down her arms, coming to points below her wrists. A short gossamer veil cascaded from the tiara of orange blossoms and seed pearls set carefully into the dark, shining confection Celeste had created with pins, combs, and determination.
“Ah, Nikki, ma chère, my heart could break, you look so lovely,” Gabrielle whispered. But even as she spoke the words, she visualized her niece dressed for another wedding—with jasmine stars in her flowing hair and a look of ecstatic expectation on her face.
“Aunt Gabi, what’s wrong?” Nicolette questioned, seeing the woman’s smile fade suddenly.
Gabrielle shook her head. “It’s nothing, enfant. Permit an older woman a moment’s nostalgia, won’t you?”
My message didn’t make it in time, Gabrielle thought. But I knew the hopelessness of it all along. She started to mention Laffite’s name to Nikki—to see her reaction—but stopped herself. Nicolette seemed to accept her fate, almost to be happy about it. No need to bring up old hurts again, she thought. Who knows if Laffite would have come anyway?
Face it, Gabi, she told herself. You were wrong!
A dark, sleek shape slipped undetected out of the river’s current and into a creek close to Belle Pointe landing.
“We’re in time, Dominique!” Laffite said, watching the last boat filled with wedding guests from New Orleans as it docked.
“Aye, Boss. Lucky Reyne caught us before we got back to Grande Terre or even Raymond’s fast pirogue couldn’t have gotten us here before the wedding.”
Laffite leaped from the boat’s bow to the muddy shore and pulled them in to land. Torches came near and he ducked into the marsh to avoid being seen.
“Blood of a thousand devils!” Dominique cursed. “Did you see who was in the party that just passed? Governor Claiborne!”
“He’s not after us tonight, Dom. He’s here for the celebration. Well, we’ll just see if we can’t disrupt the merrymaking! Come on!”
The two men crept stealthily out of hiding, leaving their boat guarded by four oarsmen. It took little effort to find the plantation house. By a hundred torches, the avenue of oaks leading up to it glowed as if inhabited by millions of amorous fireflies.
“Mon Dieu!” Dominique breathed. “I never seen nothing like this!”
“Hurry up, Dom! We haven’t got all night!”
The pair had not bargained for the multitudes of guests in attendance. It had been Laffite’s plan to find Nicolette and whisk her away from the plantation before anyone noticed her absence. But this simplistic operation, he realized, would not be possible. Torches lit the grounds all around the house so that no cover was provided by the moonless night.
Swarms of guests, relatives, and slaves surrounded the mansion, awaiting the appearance of the bride. Had Laffite and his brother had the time and opportunity to bring formal clothes with them and change, they might have lost themselves in the masses. But dressed as they were in rough sailors’ togs, they dared not show themselves for fear of immediate recognition.
“What now, Boss?” Dom asked as they hid watching from the shadows among the rows of slave cabins some distance from the opulent scene.
“Let’s give it a few minutes and see what’s happening. Nikki must still be inside. Maybe we can slip in when no one’s looking and smuggle her to freedom.”
“Jean?” Dom said hesitantly. “What if she don’t want what you call her ‘freedom?’ She took off mighty quick with Bermudez.”
“Shut up!” Laffite snapped. He let his explosive temper cool for silent moments before he said, “I’m sorry, Dom. I just can’t think that way, that’s all. I have to believe that she wants me… loves me.”
Dominique shook his head sadly for his younger brother’s sake. He was in love and paying the price for such foolishness. It was too bad that Jean couldn’t think of women in the same terms as he and Pierre—lovely to look at, exciting to hold, necessary to take to bed when the need arose, but not dependable enough to stake one’s dreams, one’s very life, upon. Pierre was satisfied with his mistress, Marie Louise, in New Orleans, and Dominique could quench his lusty appetites with any woman, providing she was large, passionate, and comparatively clean. But a wife? What need had a corsair for such a permanent arrangement?
“Look there!” Laffite said in a husky whisper, interrupting Dominique’s philosophical ruminations. “That door at the back of the house, below the gallery. A slave just came out of there carrying a basket filled with bottles. It must lead to the wine cellar. If we stay close to that line of oleanders, no one will see us enter. Come on, Dom!”
Not really a cellar, since such rooms below ground were impossible to keep dry in Louisiana, the chamber Laffite and Youx entered was a cooling room, which led up to the pantry behind the dining room on the main floor. Like most river plantation houses, Belle Pointe had a partially enclosed outside staircase for the servants’ use, leading from the working area at the back of the main floor to the storey above. Meals, bath water, firewood, and other necessities of everyday life could be transported easily this way.
The two men had spotted the
servants’ stairs as they approached the house. Laffite determined that this would be their best means of reaching the bedroom floor above.
Once inside, they waited on the rough wooden steps to the pantry, listening until all was quiet over them.
“Now!” Laffite whispered, carefully inching the heavy trap door open slightly.
They hurried from one door to the other and emerged on the narrow stairs leading to the bedrooms. Staying close to the house, they made their way upward. Laffite eased the door open when they reached it and found himself in a closet chamber or bathroom adjoining sleeping quarters, empty at the moment.
“Stay here, Dom, and whistle if you hear anyone coming. I’m going to check the hall and see if I can locate Nikki’s room.”
“Aye,” Dom answered. He caught his brother’s arm. “Be careful!”
As Laffite crossed the bedroom, he noticed several things that told him much. The grandly appointed chamber with its tall, mahogany bed, massive armoire, writing desk, and spirit cabinet was meant for a man’s use. And that man, at present, was Diego Bermudez. A purple silk dressing gown hung on the armoire, ready for use later in the evening. The unmistakable gleam of the Bermudez crest—a golden snake and dagger—adorned the garment. And there on the desk lay cards fanned out in a perfect poker hand. The nervous bridegroom had obviously been indulging in his passion for the game while he awaited the appointed time to meet his bride.
Final proof was exhibited by the silver-headed colche-marde, the sword cane Bermudez carried with him everywhere as much for swagger as utility, though Laffite had seen it bloodied more than once, including the night Octave Castaigne died.
He picked up the sword cane and moved to the door. Opening it only a crack, his breath caught. Nicolette stood directly before him across the hall, a vision of lace-trimmed beauty. The ache that had been within him since the moment she left him now doubled and redoubled as he stared at her. He couldn’t believe his luck. There she was—alone and within his reach. He had only to rush to her and whisk her away.
“Nikki,” he whispered.
She looked up, frowning, as if she weren’t sure she had heard her name spoken.
“I have it now,” Gabrielle said, hurrying into the hall from Nicolette’s bedroom, a fragile fan in her gloved hand.
Laffite jumped back, then sighed with relief. Only Gabrielle DelaCroix! She certainly wouldn’t present an obstacle since she was the one who sent the message to him in the first place.
He opened the door more than a crack, but his moment had passed. Claude Vernet, his wife, several servants, and the entire City Guard decked out in their formal silver-trimmed, buff and sky-blue uniforms, converged in the hallway. Governor Claiborne, their captain announced, had designated the Guard as official escorts for the bride from the house to the altar.
With a sinking feeling, Laffite drew back and closed the door quietly. Dominique’s low whistle alerted him to more trouble. He sped back to the stairs.
“I saw guards going into the house,” Dom rasped. “I had to get you out of there quick!”
“I saw them, too,” Laffite said in a dejected tone. “We’ve missed our chance before the ceremony, Dom. Afterward. I’ll get to her after she takes her vows. It’s the only way.”
Dominique groaned. “You crazy? You mean to steal another man’s wife? Before is one thing, but after?”
“I’m damned if I’ll let that slimy bastard Bermudez lay a hand on my wife!”
Dominique Youx started to remind his brother that Nicolette Vernet was not, in truth, his wife, but thought better of it. What good would it do? Laffite was half-crazed now. Reminding him that Nikki was not really his at this point would only make matters worse.
Dom couldn’t let the moment pass without some comment, however. “Why don’t you steal something easy, like the governor’s underwear?”
Laffite ignored the remark and pulled Dominique along behind him into the bedroom, across the hall, and to the window of Nicolette’s empty chamber. They could watch the ceremony from there.
Nicolette’s pink satin dressing gown lay discarded on the bed. Laffite picked it up and pressed it to his lips as he stared down from the window. The fabric smelled of orange blossoms and the fresh limes she always used to rinse her hair. His body strained with eagerness as he imagined that the warmth of the garment came from close contact with the body he longed to hold once more.
He leaned his taut frame against the sill and peered down on the glowing scene. The oaks sparkled in the freshening breeze off the river. Gathered under the spreading branches, the wedding guests, en masse, formed a brilliant display of New Orleans’ elite. Everyone who was anyone had been invited.
Laffite gave a humorless laugh. “Do you suppose our invitation got pirated, Dom?”
“Take it easy, Jean,” his brother answered.
Laffite watched silently. The double line of City Guards formed ranks facing each other down the stairs of the veranda. They made an arch of raised cutlasses over the deep red carpet spread for the bride. At the near entrance to the oak alley, an altar of white and gold had been erected. Laffite recognized the wizened figure of P6re Antoine, the rector of Saint Louis Cathedral, almost lost in his voluminous robes, his twin sets of side whiskers falling from the jawline to lie in silvery coils upon his breast.
Laffite felt a pang of guilt. Diego Bermudez was about to offer Nicolette a solemn ceremony, presided over by the holiest man in all of Louisiana. He had not even provided her with a poor bayou padre!
His self-flagellation became more pronounced when he saw Nicolette begin her descent from the veranda, her face obscured from his view behind the filmy veil. She moved as if her satin-slippered feet never touched the stairs. Slowly, like a cool mist from the marshes, she seemed to float toward the altar… toward Diego Bermudez.
Laffite shook with a silent spasm of anger as he watched Nikki place her hand in that of her black-clad groom.
When Diego gripped her hand, Nicolette almost gasped audibly. He grasped it with an air of total possession and unwavering authority. She had expected a tender touch from her groom—loving and gentle. But the way he crushed her fingers in his hot, dry palm made her think he was saying without words, “I own you now and forever!”
Père Antoine intoned the solemn ceremony, but Nicolette had trouble following his words and making the proper responses at the right times. She had been so sure for the past few days that she was making the right choice. Now, on the very threshold of matrimony, she was having second thoughts.
She tried to force her mind to attention. But the voice she had imagined as she stood alone in the hall refused to go away. She had heard Jean Laffite speak her name as clearly as if he had been standing before her. And the memory of her name on his lips—his wonderful, caressing lips—left her trembling.
“Your response!” Diego’s annoyed stage whisper prompted Nicolette Vernet to give Pere Antoine the final answer he needed to pronounce her Madame Bermudez.
Before she realized what was happening, her new husband raised the veil and demanded his first rights. Diego’s arms closed around her like a vise and his thin lips bruised hers painfully. The pressure of his body through her gown frightened Nicolette. Again she had the feeling of being owned—a slave to her husband. Panic filled her. She tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t allow it.
“My son,” she heard Père Antoine whisper. “S’il vous plaît! Think of your bride’s honor!”
Diego released Nicolette so abruptly that she nearly stumbled backward. He stared down into her face, unsmiling, his eyes like black ice.
For her ears alone, he answered the priest. “Honor, Father? My bride has none!”
Nicolette gasped with the realization that Diego knew she was no longer a virgin. She had planned to explain to him later. Of course, she could never have discussed such a topic with him before their marriage. But somehow he knew and despised her for it. Fear rose suddenly, like black bile in her throat. She had never seen such
a fierce, hateful look in any man’s eyes. And those passions, she knew, were reserved for her alone.
She had one hour to mingle with the guests, feast on the mountains of food the servants had prepared so lovingly, and say all the things expected of a happy bride. After that, she would have to go up to her room and prepare to receive her husband. For five days and nights she would see no one but Diego. The traditional Creole honeymoon could not be avoided.
She had wondered at Diego’s request of her father, that they be allowed to use one of the two adjacent garconnières, the smaller houses usually used by sons or male guests for their honeymoon instead of staying in the main house. Now the meaning of Diego’s plan came to her all too plainly. She wasn’t to be his bride, but his prisoner during that time. He could do what he would with her and even a scream wouldn’t be heard. She felt faint at the thought.
She cast about wildly in her mind for some escape route. She could tell her father what Diego already knew and plead for his protection from the revenge she imagined her husband had in mind.
No! she thought with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Papa would be upset and he would think that I was making it all up to avoid doing my wifely duty. I’ve heard the servants whisper often enough about the excuses Maman uses not to have to She quickly cut off the thought. It wasn’t proper for her to know such things about her parents.
“Aunt Gabi!” she said aloud and with new hope. “She knows. She’ll help me.”
But at that very moment, Diego returned to her side. He didn’t leave her during the rest of her hour of freedom. And Gabrielle stayed occupied at a distance with the governor and his charming wife. All hope of rescue flagged as her minutes of grace ticked away,
At precisely eight, Diego Bermudez checked his gold pocket watch, snapped it closed with what sounded to Nicolette like the clang of prison bars slamming shut, and ordered, “Go and change, Nicolette. It’s time.”
Tainted Lilies Page 15
