The Emerald Queen (A Vieux Carré Romance)

by Karen Jones Delk

Simone’s reluctant gaze was drawn to the man’s face as he looked at her with the first real warmth she had seen in his eyes since his return.

  Simone’s flush deepened under his scrutiny, and she looked like the girl Alain remembered so well. He fought the urge to bend his head and kiss her as she stared up at him, her green eyes dark with inner turmoil. The couple stood motionless for a moment that seemed suspended in time.

  Fortunately, Rory broke the mood. “You can’t fight with her,” she insisted, oblivious to the undercurrent of tension between the adults. “She only fights with Batiste.”

  The mask fell into place, and Simone became the efficient hostess again, excusing herself to check on the centerpiece.

  Alain watched as she disappeared into the butler’s pantry, then he shook his head as if to clear it. Thinking he was playing with her, Rory chortled with delight and demanded he do it again.

  In the pantry, Simone listened as her giggling daughter was carried down the hall to the parlor.

  How could Alain have such an intense effect on her after all this time? she asked herself fearfully. How could he affect her at all, when she loved Tom? Stabbing cut flowers into a crystal vase, she vowed not to be alone with Alain ever again.

  At dinner that night, Alain was all a hostess could wish in a guest. He was charming and witty; his conduct toward the ladies was courtly and gracious. Gently he discouraged Mrs. Martin’s advances on behalf of her daughter Nell. He listened politely to Dulcie’s rambling account of her last trip to Boston, and he discussed rising property values with her husband. In his behavior toward his hostess, he was scrupulously proper.

  But the evening passed at a snail’s pace for Simone, and she wished she could be anywhere but in the same room with Alain.

  Coffee was served in the parlors. The porte coulisse doors were thrown open, and, in the formal first parlor, Gisèle played the piano softly. Tom and Alain stood talking by the fire in the second parlor. At a nearby table, Dulcie, Barbara, and Mrs. Martin were engaged in a favorite pastime, telling fortunes with cards.

  “Monsieur de Vallière,” Dulcie beckoned him, “why don’t you come and let us foretell your future?”

  Smiling, the big man pulled out a chair and sat down. “I cannot say I believe in fortune-telling.”

  “You might be surprised,” Barbara insisted as Dulcie laid out the cards. “Sometimes the cards can be amazingly accurate.”

  “I see love,” Dulcie announced excitedly, “and possibly marriage with a beautiful woman.”

  “Then you are seeing my past, Madame Anderson,” Alain corrected dryly. “I loved a beautiful woman once, but I will never do so again. And the very thought of marriage strikes terror in my bachelor heart.”

  “Do not say such a thing, Mr. de Vallière. Someday another young lady might suit your fancy,” Mrs. Martin interjected, casting a sidelong glance at Nell. “You never know, you might marry yet.”

  “Oui, madame, you never know,” Alain agreed carelessly.

  On the settee, Simone and Lisette exchanged knowing smiles. That nonchalant remark signaled the commencement of an assault by the Martin mother and daughter on Alain’s bachelorhood, and, for a moment, they felt sorry for him. Then, realizing the campaign would keep him occupied, Simone sat back complacently to watch. She was disconcerted to discover that he also covertly watched her.

  On the morning before Twelfth Night, Simone donned a pair of boots and slipped out into the overcast morning before her guests awoke. Birds chirped in the trees, and the air smelled crisp and clean. Saturated by rain the night before, the ground was soft and spongy under her feet as she and Jupiter walked to the woods at the edge of the property. Tom and Batiste were busy at the sugar house, so she went alone to gather greens to decorate the ballroom.

  When her big basket was filled with feathery branches, Simone walked back toward the house. As she reached the edge of the lawn, it began to rain, gently at first. Then thunder rumbled overhead, and it began to pour. Slogging across the lawn in front of her, Jupiter wisely made for the nearest building, the carriage house.

  Simone followed, surprised to find the door open. Dripping, she ducked inside just as Jupiter gave a surprised woof. Happy, snuffling sounds followed . . .and a low, male voice responding.

  In the dim interior Simone spotted Alain, who sensing her dismay, quickly advised, “Don’t go. You will get soaked.”

  Simone was not sure that being wet was not preferable to being alone with him. She wavered at the door, prepared to flee.

  “Why are you afraid, Simone?” Alain asked quietly. He was kneeling between two rigs, scratching the dog’s stomach. Jupiter sprawled on the dirt floor, his hind foot pumping blissfully.

  “I’m not afraid.” She hoped she sounded more confident than she felt.

  “Then stay.” With a final, friendly thump on Jupiter’s belly, he rose. “Don’t you think you should come away from the door before you get wetter than you already are?”

  She did not reply, but she walked a few steps into the carriage house and set her basket heavily on the ground. Then she turned to look out again at the rain.

  She heard Alain stir and knew he was standing behind her. He was right, she realized. She was afraid to be alone with him.

  “You’re shivering,” he murmured, placing his jacket over her shoulders.

  Glancing back, she found he stood much too close for comfort. “Merci,” she said, sidling away, “I am cold.”

  After a long, uncomfortable moment, she asked, “What are you doing here, Alain?”

  “Seeking shelter from the storm, like you. I was out walking.”

  The silence returned, and Simone stared out at the wet landscape while Alain stared at her.

  Even with her hair hanging in sodden ropes, she was beautiful. Droplets of rain beaded on her eyebrows and lashes as she looked down at Jupiter, who had returned to her side. Framed by the doorway, she made a pretty picture as she stroked the big dog’s muddy coat.

  As he looked at her, Alain despaired. He never should have come to LaVictoire. He had believed himself strong enough to control his emotions, to forget he had ever wanted Simone. But he was not so strong, after all. He had thought, when he came, that he would prove something to himself. Now he realized he was proving only his weakness for her.

  He hated this weakness that made him desire her. He did not want to want her. She belonged to another man, a man he had come to like. Where was his highly valued honor, Alain asked himself savagely, when he would take her if she offered herself?

  “I must go,” he said abruptly.

  “But it’s still raining.” She turned, surprised by the harsh note in his voice, and found herself gazing into his tortured face. Struck by the hostility in his dark eyes, she stared up at him. “You really do hate me,” she whispered.

  “Non.” Seizing her arms, he drew her to him. His mouth came down on hers, briefly but fiercely, and just as fiercely, he pushed her away from him. “I hate what you do to me.”

  With that pronouncement, he was gone.

  Shaken, Simone watched him stride across the rain-washed lawn. His wet hair was plastered against his head, and the sleeves of his white shirt clung to his muscular arms.

  When the rain let up, she folded his jacket with trembling hands and laid it neatly on the seat of one of the carriages. Then she picked up her basket and trudged sadly toward the house.

  Simone set a circlet of white roses intertwined with dainty sprigs of ivy upon her head. The garland matched the ivy motif embroidered along the hem of her white satin gown, and her emerald necklace was the perfect complement. But her mind was not on her appearance. It was on the house party. She was glad it was nearly over. This morning, Alain had gotten the bean in his plum cake, and thus, for today, he had been the king. He had entered into the spirit of things, amiably ordering Lisette to be his partner at lunch while the Martin females sulked. Throughout the day, he had taken pains to avoid Simone as she did him.

  “You loo
k beautiful, darlin’.” Tom came to stand behind her, elegant in his evening clothes.

  “And you look very handsome, my love,” she answered, kissing his cheek. Then they went to the ballroom.

  The guests were assembled when Alain arrived and was shown to his place on the dais. Taking a place in the middle of the room, Tom said so everyone could hear, “You haven’t been with us before on Twelfth Night, ‘Lain, but what these folks are waiting for is your word as king to begin the festivities.”

  Affecting a deadpan, haughty mien, Alain looked out over the revelers and announced, “As king of Twelfth Night, it is our pleasure that our subjects celebrate. And we claim as our royal right the first dance with our hostess.”

  A murmur ran through the room but subsided when the others realized the newcomer did not know that Tom and Simone always danced the first dance of the evening on their wedding anniversary.

  Caught up in the spirit of Twelfth Night, Tom seemed unperturbed by the change in routine. Attentive to the playacting, no one but Lisette noticed how pale Simone’s face was behind her mask. Her cheeks burned with two bright spots of color when Alain took her hand and led her out onto the floor.

  Graceful and elegant, the couple made one circuit of the room before the other dancers joined them.

  “Do not hold me so tightly, Alain,” Simone bade through stiff lips. “Everyone is watching.”

  “Let them watch.” He smiled down at her.

  Simone gazed up at him in wary confusion. Yesterday he had thrust her away from him. Now, through the slits in his black half mask, his dark eyes were warm with passion, and he held her near.

  “You look as lovely tonight as you did the last time we danced at a masque,” he murmured. “Do you remember?”

  “I remember,” she answered, trying to remain unaffected by the memory.

  “You wore roses in your hair that night, too.” He breathed in the scent deeply.

  “Alain, what happened seven years ago is past,” she began desperately. “You must forget what was once between us.”

  “What was once between us is still between us,” he said flatly. “You can’t deny it.”

  “Non!” Simone protested. “I’m a happily married woman. I have given you no reason to think otherwise.”

  “Then these were not a signal to me?” He indicated the jewels that sparkled around her neck.

  Her hand going to her throat, Simone remembered she was wearing the emeralds he had given her so long ago. Inwardly, she cursed her preoccupation when she had dressed; she had not thought of the beautiful necklace’s potential effect on Alain.

  “I’m sorry, ‘Lain,” she said gently, “I didn’t intend them to be any kind of sign.”

  “I see.” His manner abruptly changed, and he held her in rigid arms until the end of their waltz. Releasing her, he sniped, “You urge me to forget while you flaunt what I gave you to remember me by. It seems, madame, you got considerably more from our liaison than I did.”

  Behind her half mask, Simone’s green eyes glittered in fury, but she did not betray her anger when she left the dance floor.

  Fulfilling his obligation as king, Alain danced with every woman present. Then he returned to his “throne,” where he watched Tom and Simone waltz together.

  Tom held his wife as if she were a treasure, gazing down at her lovingly. Petite and exquisite, Simone seemed to float across the floor in his arms, her lips curved in a smile for him alone.

  As he observed the spellbound couple, Alain forced himself to examine his emotions honestly. It was true he felt a stab of pain at the love shining on both their faces. He even admitted to a stir of envy for Tom. But he could feel no malice toward the man, and no real hatred for Simone. Weary and disgusted by the constant battle raging inside him, he excused himself as soon as it was seemly and returned to the garçonnière.

  He was packing the next morning when he heard a stealthy tread on the stairs outside his room. Holding the leather case that contained his shaving gear, he moved to stand behind the door.

  Slowly it swung open, and through the crack Alain saw a trim, familiar figure hover hesitantly in the doorway. He waited until she was inside, then he closed the door.

  Simone whirled. “I thought you were playing cards with the men in the library,” she gasped.

  “I am preparing to leave.” Alain walked to his bag, open on the bed, and tossed the leather case he carried inside. “What do you want?”

  “I. . .I came to bring these back.” She handed him a velvet box, its edges now worn. “I hadn’t thought of it until last night, but it’s not right that I should keep them.”

  He opened the box and admired the beautiful necklace and earrings.

  “Your father used to say that emeralds meant lucky in love,” he mused. “Perhaps he was right. I have not been as lucky in love as you.”

  Turning his back on her pained expression, he snapped closed the box and tossed it into his bag as well. “You’d better go now,” he said coldly. “Tom might be upset to discover his wife in another man’s room.”

  Simone fled, leaving him to curse the yearning that gnawed at him still.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “There y’all are,” Tom said, finding his wife and daughter sitting on the floor before the fire. “What are you doing?”

  “Drawing pictures, Papa,” Rory answered for both, holding out a wrinkled paper. “Do you want to see you?”

  Tom examined the drawing approvingly. “Very nice, Rory. What are these dots beside me?”

  “Pralines coming out of your pocket.”

  “Is that all you think I’m good for, bringing you sweets?”

  “No, sometimes you bring presents for maman, too,” she answered gravely, settling in Simone’s lap.

  “It’s nice to know where I stand in this house,” Tom grumbled good-naturedly. Indicating a letter he took from his pocket, he said to his wife, “Alain sends his best. He’ll be here next week to discuss the partnership. I’m beginning to think this can work.”

  Simone stared into the fire. She had known that Alain would be returning, but she was not ready to face him. He and Tom had kept up a steady correspondence since Tom had convinced him that the screw-propeller oceangoing steamships being tested in England were the future of the shipping industry.

  The captain had investigated the cost of commissioning a screw-propeller ship, and he had more than half the money to construct the boat he was already calling Queen New Orleans. He was determined to build it and hoped Alain would put up the remainder. If not, he would even deal with bankers, if he had to.

  Fortunately, Alain was interested. Unfortunately, he was coming to LaVictoire to discuss the final details for what would become Queen Enterprises.

  Tom glanced up from the letter, his distracted expression clearing as he smiled at his wife and daughter. “The two of you look so pretty there. Your eyes are like emeralds.

  “Speaking of emeralds, Simone,” he said slowly, “I haven’t seen you wear yours for a while.”

  “I—I broke the clasp,” she answered quickly. “I must have them repaired the next time I go to New Orleans.”

  She was glad Tom’s attention was already back on the letter, for she imagined her guilt must be visible on her face. She had never lied to him before. There were things she had not told him, such as her relationship with Alain, but she had never lied to him. She discovered she did not like it.

  “So we’ll need an extra guest room prepared,” Tom was saying. He stopped when she looked at him blankly.

  “I’m sorry, cher, I am afraid I wasn’t listening,” she confessed, shifting Rory so the sleepy child leaned against her chest. “Why do we need another guest room?”

  “One for Hiram, one for Alain, and one for Dominique Cuvillion.”

  “Dominique?”

  “He’s still Alain’s attorney.”

  “I know,” she answered, sighing. “It’s just . . . ”

  “You may have hurt him when you
wouldn’t marry him,” Tom murmured, “but that was a long time ago. Dominique is an old married man now with a passel of children. Everything will be fine, you’ll see.”

  When he left, Simone sat with her drowsy daughter in her lap. Her chin resting lightly on top of Rory’s head, she breathed in the warm, milky smell of the child, but it did not comfort her or chase away the sense of foreboding she felt.

  Alain and Dominique were coming to LaVictoire. For a moment, Simone wished she could run away. But it seemed she had been running all her life. Rising awkwardly under the weight of her sleeping child, she resolved she could face anything—even two former suitors—as long as Tom was by her side.

  When their guests arrived on the Bayou Queen, the entire Franklin family went to the landing to greet them. Rory met Alain with an exuberant cry which ended in a squeal of delight as she was swept up in strong arms. Hiram hugged Simone and Dominique bowed courteously and kissed her hand.

  The lawyer was little changed, except that he had lost most of his hair, retaining only a fringe around the sides. And the glass of his spectacles was perhaps a bit thicker.

  After the travelers had had time to refresh themselves, Tom showed them to the study. “Aren’t you coming?” he asked Simone when she lingered in the hall.

  “Are you sure you want me to?” she whispered so the men in the room would not hear.

  “Of course. You’re my partner, aren’t you?”

  Hiram was shuffling through his papers when the couple entered, but the Creoles’ brows rose in astonishment.

  “First of all, gentlemen,” Hiram began, his eyes on his papers, “we’ll need five directors.”

  “Surely three will do,” Dominique interjected.

  “That would hardly be fair to Mr. de Vallière.” Hiram looked up in surprise. “Captain and Mrs. Franklin could outvote him at any time.”

  “Mrs. Franklin?” Alain and Dominique questioned in unison.

  “Simone is to be a partner,” Tom stated unequivocally.

  “A partner?” Dominique looked as if he could not believe his ears.

  “She’s been my partner in every business venture I’ve undertaken for the last seven years,” Tom said firmly. “I see no reason she should not be this time as well.”