How she ached for him. But what could she say? What could she do? She murmured her condolences and sadly prepared to leave.
“Don’t go,” he commanded harshly. “Don’t you want to hear the end of my story? The king finally heard of his cousin’s perfidy and my experiences, and he asked me to undertake the governor’s position on the island I had only recently fled. The proposal held an ironic fascination for me, and, since I no longer had a reason to return to New Orleans, I accepted. For the past three years, I have been one of His Majesty’s governors in the Caribbean, much to the benefit of my finances. Still, when my father summoned me two months ago, I decided to resign and return to Bois Blanc. End of odyssey,” he concluded. “And here I am.”
“You’ve been through a great deal,” Simone murmured sympathetically.
“Spare me your pity, madame.” Alain’s face was a cold mask of arrogance. “I do not need it. Just as I do not need you.”
“‘Lain . . .” She searched for the proper words. “I’m sorry these things happened, but they weren’t my doing. Surely you must see that. Why do you hate me so?”
“I don’t hate you, ma petite,” he answered. He bent so his face was disturbingly close to hers. “Even though you betrayed our love, I don’t hate you. I do not feel anything for you . . . beyond mild curiosity.”
“What do you mean?” She stared up at him.
“I wanted to see if you were any truer to Franklin than you were to me.” He smiled spitefully. “I see you are not.”
Simone drew back her hand to slap him, but Alain caught it and pulled her roughly against him. His mouth slanted across hers in a fierce, demanding kiss.
Her green eyes wide in alarm, she struggled in his grasp, but Alain gripped her more tightly, his tongue plundering her mouth.
When she whimpered, he gentled his kisses, but did not stop the assault on her dizzied senses.
“Remember?” he whispered against her lips. “Remember when you gave yourself to me? Remember our night of lovemaking?”
Slowly, Simone succumbed to his persuasive caresses, his tender words. The years seemed to melt away, mingling past and present. Her will to resist her longlost love crumbled. She closed her eyes and yielded to his heat.
Abruptly Alain set her away from him, sneering, “Just as I guessed. An unfaithful lover makes an unfaithful wife.”
This time he did not try to stop her as she drew back her hand and slapped him. Then she fled, the sound of Alain’s jeering laughter echoing in her ears.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Simone walked along rue Chartres, savoring the scent of the freshly washed banquettes and the aroma of breakfast cooking in a hundred close-packed dwellings. Though she was happy in the American Section with Tom, she missed mornings in the Vieux Carré. The cries of the street vendors, sometimes melodious, sometimes strident, were welcome sounds to her ears.
“Emeraude,” a familiar voice called, “how are ye?”
“Dev!” Simone greeted the gambler with pleasure. “I’m fine. How are you?”
“All the better for seeing ye. Yer a winsome sight, Mrs. Franklin, in yer bonnet with flowers upon it.”
“Merci, monsieur. You look rather handsome yourself.”
“‘Tis the air of respectability, I imagine.” He made a great show of preening. “I just opened a casino of the better sort on Poydras. I could use a good dealer. . .” he teased, falling into step beside her. “What are ye doing out and about this fine morning?”
“I’ve been to see my attorney.”
“What a business woman ye’ve become, and still ye manage to be the prettiest thing in all Louisiana.” He leered playfully at her.
“You’re a terrible flirt, Devlin Hennessey,” she responded with a shake of her head.
“Aye,” he agreed with a shameless grin. “‘Tis good to see ye, Simone. Join me for a cup of café.”
“One cup,” she agreed. “Then I have to go.”
They headed for a nearby café, where they sipped bitter coffee lightened and smoothed with milk and chatted. A short time later, they stepped out onto the sunny banquette and parted.
Simone had not gone five steps before another familiar voice said softly, “So I am not the only man Madame visits when her husband is not watching.”
Looking around, she saw Alain standing in a doorway. With a knowing smile, he doffed his hat. Refusing to explain her actions to him, she drew herself up and marched away without a word.
She was still trying to put aside her anger when she arrived at Lisette’s house. In the foyer, she marched through a clutter of crates and barrels, stepping back to allow Jude to pass with a huge box and a harried expression on his face.
In Lisette’s barren suite, stripped of its familiar trappings, Simone found the woman bent over a barrel. From the barrel’s hollow interior, Lisette instructed, “You can take the other crate now, but be careful.”
“I came to help.” Simone chuckled. “But I don’t think I can handle that crate on my own.”
Lisette straightened and turned. “Oh, chère, I thought Jude had come back. Will you help me pack my mother’s china?”
Taking off her hat, Simone rolled up her sleeves and set to work. “I can hardly believe you’re going to be our neighbor.”
“When Monsieur Guilbeau offered to sell Hideaway to me, I could hardly believe it myself. I couldn’t have been more surprised, or touched. He knows who I am and how I made my living, and he does not care.”
“He is an unusual man,” Simone said. “He liked you the few times he saw you at LaVictoire, and that was good enough for him.”
“I like him, too.” Lisette’s gray eyes were suspiciously moist as she wrapped a teacup in paper. “He is a dear old gentleman, like a favorite uncle, wanting me to have Hideaway because he has no close family and wishes it to be in good hands. I cried when he told me. First because he was so sweet, and then because I knew I couldn’t afford it.”
“But you found he was not so interested in money, didn’t you?”
“Oui, he sold it to me for a scandalously low price. All he wanted was the promise he could live in the garçonnière until his death. I’m so excited, I’m not even sorry to leave New Orleans.”
“I won’t be either.”
Lisette looked at her sharply. “What’s wrong, ma petite?”
“Oh, I just saw Alain again,” Simone answered, a frown knitting her brows. “For the past month, I’ve seen him everywhere. At the theater, the racetrack, parties—everywhere. I look up and see his superior smile. Even if he is not present, people talk about him on both sides of Canal Street. He’s always polite, but just under the manners . . . I don’t know . . . he seems to bait me.”
“He has changed. There’s a bitterness about him that was not there before,” Lisette said with a sigh, remembering his first visit to her house after his return. She had wept with happiness to see her old friend, but when their conversation turned to Simone, she found he was not the man she had known.
“But, Alain,” she had protested, “you must understand, when you first disappeared--”
“I heard it from her. I don’t want to hear it again,” he had snapped. “Spare me a defense of the faithless bitch.”
“Did you want her to live for a dead man? Because that’s what you were, Alain de Vallière—dead and gone.” Lisette had quickly seen that he did not want to hear it, even if it was the truth.
“I wouldn’t expect her to mourn forever, but I certainly didn’t expect her to elope with the nearest available man,” he had maintained unreasonably. “It is not as if she was without a protector. I left Batiste to care for her.”
“You delude yourself if you think protection is the reason Simone finally married Tom Franklin.” The woman decided she could do no less than tell him the truth. “Simone finally married Tom because she loves him. And he loves her very much.”
“He is welcome to her,” Alain had snapped, storming out as Lisette watched, helpless and deeply tro
ubled for her friend.
Still troubled, the madam muttered, “Oui, he is much changed, Simone. Life was very unkind to him, and it changed him. It is sad, but he is not the man you once loved.”
“Non.” Simone turned her attention to packing and hoped Lisette would not notice the tears that had sprung to her eyes.
Returning home that afternoon, the first thing Simone saw was a creamy calling card on the table in the foyer. She picked it up and stared at it with chagrin. Alain de Vallière . . . What kind of game was he playing? Had he come to report her meeting with Dev? Or to tell Tom that he had once been her lover? Why couldn’t he leave her alone?
“You just missed Alain de Vallière,” Tom announced. He emerged from the study, carrying two-year-old Rory in his arms.
“So I see,” his wife said coolly. Tossing the card back onto the table, she removed her hat before the foyer mirror.
“Maman!” Rory crowed, leaning precariously toward her. Her green eyes, so like her mother’s, danced with delight as she held out the doll she clutched in her pudgy arms.
“See what he brought Rory?” Tom struggled to maintain his grip on the squirming little girl. “She took to Alain like a bear to honey. Even gave him a famous Franklin smile.”
“Did she?” Taking her daughter, Simone admired the new toy. “What a lovely doll.”
“Nonc’ ‘Lain gave her to me,” Rory informed her mother.
“He said that with its green eyes and black hair, the doll looked like Rory,” Tom said, adding with a chuckle, “Guess she’s supposed to be as mischievous as Rory, too. He said her name is Coco Robichaux. Isn’t that the imaginary girl who makes good Creole children do naughty things?”
“Oui.” Simone smiled, though inwardly she fumed.
“Down,” Rory demanded when she saw the butler approaching. “Coco wants to see Wa’field.”
“Time for lunch, Miss Aurora.” Wakefield smiled indulgently and offered a liver-spotted hand.
“My name is Rory,” the child maintained stubbornly.
“Yes, Miss Rory.” Chuckling, the butler led her away.
“Come with me, darlin’,” Tom requested. “I need to talk to you.”
Cold with dread, Simone followed her husband into the study.
As he pawed through the papers cluttering his desk, he said, “I wish you had been here earlier. Alain was sorry he missed you.”
“But I saw him just this morning.” Simone decided to counter any trouble the Creole might have tried to cause. “He said nothing of coming here.”
“He didn’t mention that, but he didn’t stay long. He seems like a helluva nice fellow. I’d like to get to know him.” Tom sorted through his papers, his mind on business, missing Simone’s expression of dismay.
“Here we go.” He seized a piece of paper. “The estimate for a new engine for the Creole Queen. We have to consider whether it’s worth it to replace it or not. She’s pretty old for a steamboat.”
Accepting the sheet from her husband, Simone tried to concentrate on the numbers printed on it, but her roiling emotions would not allow it. She decided she hated Alain even more than she had at thirteen. But she could not let anyone, especially Tom, know how she felt.
Feeling his questioning gaze upon her, she looked up. “I agree. Even though we might like to, we cannot hang onto the Creole Queen just because she is a part of our past.”
With a regretful smile, Tom moved around the desk to kiss his wife lightly on the lips. “Thank goodness you’re in better shape than she is, darlin’. I’d hate to have to retire you.”
In the weeks that followed, Tom and Alain sought out each other’s company, much to Simone’s consternation. Though it was time to go home, the Franklins lingered in New Orleans, waiting for the arrival of new equipment Tom had ordered for LaVictoire’s sugar house.
When the equipment arrived at last, Simone insisted her family leave the city at once. As the Bayou Queen neared LaVictoire, Tom stood behind his wife, his arms looped around her waist.
“I used to think I couldn’t be content unless I was on the river,” he said quietly. “Now I know I am happiest at LaVictoire with you and Rory. It’ll be good to get home.”
She turned to him, her feelings clearly displayed on her face. “I love you, Tom.”
“I love you, too.”
For days after their return, Tom tried in vain to get his new equipment running. Colorful curses punctuated his frustration when he discovered he was missing a part.
He made a hurried trip back to New Orleans but was unable to get the part in time for the upcoming harvest. The plantation would have another sugar-making season without the benefits of a centrifugal separator. Tom did not say whether he had seen Alain, and Simone did not ask.
Fall was hectic at LaVictoire. While the men were busy with the harvest, Simone and Rosette hurried to make baby clothes for the child Rosette was expecting in December, and Simone threw herself into preparations for the holidays.
Ethan and Gisèle arrived before Christmas with John Adams and Patrick Henry, who was just two months older than Rory. At first, three-year-old Johnny tried to dominate the younger children. In the end, independent Rory became the natural leader, inciting her male cousins to mischief they would never have dared on their own.
The holidays were a delight that year. The Franklins bestowed Christmas gifts of fruit and clothing on all their slaves and a toy for each child. On New Year’s Day, Tom and Simone were going over the arrangements for the Twelfth Night party, when he suddenly remembered an extra guest he had invited.
“You did what?” Simone snapped.
“I invited Alain the last time I saw him in New Orleans,” he answered, surprised by her vehemence. “I know I should’ve told you, sugar, but I was busy with the harvest and forgot all about it. One more person won’t really make a difference, will it?” he coaxed.
“I do not suppose it will.” She sighed. “It’s just that we’ve always arranged for even numbers of males and females so everyone has a dinner and dancing partner,” she protested feebly.
“Don’t worry, darlin’, I’ll dance with him. I’ll even let him lead,” her husband assured her with an outrageous wink.
The guests began to arrive the next day and were greeted by Tom and Ethan and Gisèle. The hostess was in the overseer’s cabin, where Rosette’s labor had finally begun.
As the hours wore on, Batiste, who had taught Simone all she knew of healing, hovered underfoot. At last she sent him to wait outside, where he paced the porch. Between Rosette’s contractions, Simone heard voices and glanced out the window.
Alain was approaching, and the big overseer had bounded out to meet him. Though Batiste had been overjoyed to hear that his former master had returned safely, nothing had lured him from the side of his pregnant wife. Now he was unmistakably happy to see the Creole.
The two big men embraced, then, seemingly embarrassed, they looked each other over and relaxed into their old bantering style.
After a while the talk became serious. “So you thought I was dead, too?” Alain asked soberly.
“Wasn’t much else to think, ‘Lain. We searched, the police searched. M’sieur Cuvillion brought word about your clothes being found . . . well, that seemed as close to finding a body as anyone was going to get.”
“So you both gave up and threw in with Franklin,” Alain said, faintly accusing.
“We did what we had to do,” Batiste answered. “And Cap’n Franklin was a godsend. Neither of us was safe in New Orleans. I was a suspect in your murder, and Baudin was hounding Simone. He caught up with her one night, and his bodyguard wounded her in the side.”
“What?” the Creole breathed disbelievingly. “This is the first I’ve heard of it. Dieu! Sometimes I wish Marcel had not been committed. He has much to answer for.”
“Simone is safe now. That’s all that matters. She’s got a peaceful life here, ‘Lain. I think she’d just like to forget the past.”
“She can’
t forget any more than I can,” Alain said bitterly.
“She’s happy, ‘Lain,” Batiste replied with a note of warning in his voice. “Cap’n Franklin is a good man, and he’s good to her.”
“I know, mon ami,” the other man sighed, a bleak expression on his face. “I know.” Simone shivered as the men moved out of earshot.
The next morning, she joined her guests at breakfast, apologetic for her absence the previous evening, but wearing a bright smile. During the night, Rosette had presented Batiste with a healthy freeborn son named Alexander.
Sensing that Alain had taken his conversation with Batiste to heart, Simone relaxed somewhat. He was courteous and cordial, charming the other guests, and, when he spoke to her, his comments were no longer pointed. Still, she often felt his dark eyes upon her, and she was careful not to be alone with him.
One sunny January afternoon during the holidays, Alain entered the house through the back door, carrying Rory on his shoulders. His hands gripped her legs to steady her as her little fingers twined in his dark hair.
Seeing Simone in the deserted dining room, he halted in the doorway. Preoccupation with dinner preparations replaced the guarded expression she usually wore around him. With the haughty mask removed, he saw warmth and vulnerability in her face. She started and looked up when Rory called, “Look, Maman. I’m riding.”
“So you are.” Walking toward them, Simone smiled up at her daughter. “Have you been bothering M’sieur de Vallière?”
“This is mon Oncle ‘Lain.” Rory hugged him in rapturous affection, wrapping her arms around his head so he could not see.
“Easy, Rory,” Alain commanded, laughing as he lifted the child’s clinging arms from in front of his face.
“She hasn’t been bothering me,” he told Simone. “She’s been teaching me how to fence.”
Simone’s cheeks colored slightly at her daughter’s unwitting audacity, but before she could speak, Rory piped, “Maman fights with swords.”
“I know,” Alain said softly. “I’ve fenced with her on starlit summer evenings.”
The Emerald Queen (A Vieux Carré Romance) Page 32
