Silver-Tongued Devil (Louisiana Plantation Collection)

by Blake, Jennifer

  It was consuming glory, a miraculous upheaval that transcended fear, banished thought, and could surely forge bonds of the flesh past all severance. Stunning, bursting, it held her, and with it she gave him all she had of herself, offered every vestige of her love.

  With a final, wrenching lunge, he joined her in the perfect bond. Surrendering to it, they clung, drifting. And were hardly conscious of the moment when it left them and they were divided, separate, again.

  He eased down beside her, settling her into the curve of his body. The steady burning lamplight burnished their skin with tints of yellow and gold, pink and peach, bronze and ivory. It caught the glint of their eyes as they lay, each staring wide-eyed, seeing nothing in the dim room.

  Angelica grew cramped and uncomfortable, still she didn’t move. There sifted into her mind a vague disturbance over Renold’s offer to renew his wedding vows. The suggestion had been made so readily. He seemed comfortable with the idea, ready to do whatever pleased her. And yet, he had quickly turned to more personal matters without discussing it in any detail. It seemed odd.

  A wedding at Bonheur. It would be a quiet affair, no doubt, as became a simple reaffirmation of vows that had supposedly already been made. She didn’t want a great many people around her, did not care for the special decorations or a fine new dress, could not face a lavish display of food and drink. Her mourning made it impossible, of course, but more than that, it would be a reminder of everything that her father had planned for her.

  She wondered what he would think if he could see her, if he would be horrified or pleased. Certainly, he would be worried, she knew, for he had loved her in his way, and must be concerned that she was living with a man so much his enemy. It was possibly just as well that he would never know.

  She had accused Renold of self-sacrifice, of martyring himself on the field of honor to prove a point. Yet, wasn’t she doing the same by marrying Renold in order to return legal claim to Bonheur to those from whom her father had taken it? Was it martyrdom if she wanted the consequences with all her heart?

  But perhaps Renold was also sacrificing himself by marrying her. It was his choice, one she could not remember being given the opportunity to refuse. Still, it might be wrong to accept that gesture from him now.

  Did he mean it? Would he go through with another ceremony? And if he did, would it be as he said, a concession to ease her mind? Or could it be just a clever ruse to legitimize their union, their first and only wedding? She wished she knew, but saw no way to discover the truth.

  ~ ~ ~

  Renold stood with his shoulder braced against the column of the gallery, staring down the drive. Tit Jean was approaching from the steamboat landing, coming on his mule at a fast trot. It was plain the manservant had news. Pray God, it was what they all waited to hear.

  It was. Father Goulet would be arriving on the steamboat tomorrow morning, following after the note the priest had sent accepting Renold’s invitation to Bonheur. The wedding could proceed.

  Renold was relieved. He had been afraid his whim to have his own priest, his mother’s old confessor, would cause considerably more delay. He wanted this over and done; the sooner, the better. They would have the ceremony tomorrow evening.

  Everything was ready, he thought. His mother had seen fit to approve the decision when he told her of it, and had thrown her considerable talent for organization into the preparations. The thing would be a bit more grand than he had planned, but it made no difference so long as Angelica was pleased.

  It had been touch and go two days ago. Tit Jean, in the small river town on an errand, had watched the arrival of a steamer from upriver. The boat had landed several crates and barrels for Bonheur. The manservant had naturally seen to it that they were brought up to the house. Following after them, he had begun to unpack them. Angelica had walked into the middle of the operation.

  Renold had heard her cry out as he walked from the stable. Cold sweat drenched him, and he broke into a run. He found her standing in the middle of the litter of straw and broken crates, her hands to her mouth as she stared at the carefully stacked china and crystal, the burlap wrapped hams and sides of bacon, the boxes of raisins and crocks of pickles and curious shell-shaped pottery jars of olive oil. Tears had spilled over her lashes as her gaze rested on the silk gown that spilled from a special box. Of lustrous pale blue, it was embellished with cobweb lace, draped with ribbon loops and streamers, and set with pink silk rosebuds.

  It was, of course, the bridal gown commissioned in Natchez for Angelica by her father. With it were all the rich meats and other confections for the wedding feast. Standing there, staring at it, Renold had cursed himself for his lack of forethought. He should have known the things would come, should have done something to stop them.

  He had stepped toward her, meaning to take her in his arms. Turning away as if she had not seen him, she walked to her bedchamber and closed the door behind her. He had listened shamelessly outside, afraid he would hear her crying. There had not been a sound. That had, somehow, been worse.

  When she appeared later, she had been quite composed. She would wear the bridal gown, she said. Torn between a need to see her out of the black of mourning, if only for a day, and reluctance to have his wife dressed by the man who had stolen Bonheur, Renold had said nothing. Wearing it had some meaning for her, he thought, a gesture toward what was past. He had no objection to that so long as she looked toward the future. With him.

  “Maître?”

  The manservant was still standing before him, patiently waiting to be noticed again. Renold said, “My apologies, Tit Jean. There was something else?”

  “The men you have been expecting? I think they may have come. Two strangers got off the steamboat on the day of the blue dress, one young, one older. They have been asking questions.”

  “Hardly conclusive,” Renold said. “Unless you have a more exact description?”

  “Indeed, maître,” Tit Jean said, “but it is, I think, unnecessary. The watch posted along the river road reports that these two rode past the house late last night. They stopped to look, then went on.”

  “No one disturbed them?”

  “No, maître.”

  “The watch wasn’t seen?”

  Tit Jean shook his head. “They think not, though they can’t be sure.”

  “Instruct them to look sharp. They will be back, and they may bring friends.”

  The manservant inclined his head, then moved away into the house. Renold turned back toward the front lawn with a frown between his brows.

  It was Carew, of course. What was he doing sneaking around? Why didn’t he just ride up the drive and demand his daughter?

  Scorn rose inside Renold as he considered the question. He could not believe his reputation as a swordsman was so fearsome it would keep a loving father at bay. That it apparently could only strengthened the low opinion he had of Edmund Carew.

  What was the man up to, then? Would he try another piece of trickery like the one that failed in New Orleans?

  Let him. Bonheur would be ready.

  Twilight was the time chosen for the wedding. The sun set across the fields, edging the blades of the long rows of cane with gold. It swathed the sky in gauzy clouds of pink, rose, mauve, and lavender before sinking behind the saw-toothed line of the trees. The evening settled into the melancholy half-light known as l’heure bleu, the blue hour.

  Doves called with a mournful note across the lawn. The scent of honeysuckle hung on the warm air, drifting in at the open French doors. Blended with it were the smells of woodsmoke and roasting meat from the wedding feast that waited. The rich fragrances joined the sweet lemon scent of the magnolias that banked the altar erected at one end of the front parlor. Branched candelabras stood there also, their candles casting a soft glow over the fine damask altar cloth, the silver chalice, the worn cassock of the priest who stood to one side.

  Deborah, softly and with precise fingering, played a Beethoven sonata on the pianoforte. The
notes flowed around the long room — the doors between front and back parlors had been thrown wide — than drifted out the French doors into the evening. Michel stood at Deborah’s side, turning the pages of her music. They glanced at each other now and then in silent, half-smiling communication.

  As if drawn by the scents and sounds, the people of Bonheur approached the house, the house servants crowding into the back of the parlor, the field hands lining the gallery. Estelle and Tit Jean, as was their right, took their places in the forefront of the gathering near Renold’s mother.

  All that was needed was the bride. She was late.

  Renold stood in a pretense of ease beside the bedchamber door where Angelica would appear. He kept his face impassive with an effort while he waited, though his heart was beating so hard he could hear the links of his watch chain rattling against a waistcoat button. So much had gone wrong in what might be called, with some irony, his courtship of Angelica. He would not be surprised if something prevented this last step.

  Yet if she did not mean to emerge, surely she would have had Estelle tell them. The maid had left her over half an hour ago.

  He himself had not seen Angelica since dinner the evening before; she had kept to her room all day as was the tradition. She had been composed and cheerful last night at least. If she had had second thoughts since then, there had been nothing to indicate it

  The doorknob in front of him rattled, turned slowly. He exhaled slowly in soundless relief. Then she stood in the opening, and he forgot to breathe at all.

  Sublimely perfect in her wedding gown, she was lovely in a way that tore at his heart. She met his gaze, her smile serious, searching, then moved forward to take his arm.

  The silk of her skirts made a soft, whispering sound as she walked beside him toward the altar. The nudge of her hoop against his ankle was incredibly sensuous. Pride was a curious thing to feel, yet it surged up inside him along with a wild and reckless desire to take her away somewhere out of all this and make love to her the whole night long.

  But the priest was waiting, the look in his old wise eyes a bit severe, as if he knew the impetuous thoughts that raged within the bridegroom. Renold steadied Angelica as they genuflected. The priest stepped forward to receive them.

  “My child,” the priest said, smiling at Angelica, “it isn’t often that I must unite a man and woman in matrimony twice over. Still, your scruples become you well, and it is my great pleasure to perform this service. I pray that the devotion you share with Renold be doubly blessed as it is doubly sanctified.”

  Renold had not expected such a confirmation of the first ceremony from the priest. He had thought, rather, that seeing Father Goulet, hearing the same vows spoken in the same way, might spark some useful memory. If it had not, he had expected to turn the conversation later to draw it from the priest. He was intensely grateful that it had come without his urging.

  The gaze of wonder and sweet, spreading joy Angelica turned up to him made the waiting for the priest’s arrival as nothing, the time spent worth the effort and the hazard. Taking her hand, he pressed his lips to it, smiling into her eyes. Together, then, they turned toward the altar.

  There was comfort in the ritual. The response had as much to do with the sounds of the Latin, the smells of the incense and burning candle wax, the movements of kneeling and rising as the meaning of the words. Yet the words themselves had a grandeur that transcended place and intent to bring an upsurge of pure exultation.

  So Renold spoke his vows without faltering, and felt them inside where pledges become a matter of honor. Angelica’s responses rang in his ears with soft fervor. The sentence of mutual and inseparable bondage was pronounced. Renold placed the loving kiss of a husband on Angelica’s lips, and they turned to face their well-wishers.

  It was then that the voice struck through the sound of applause and the chorus of felicitations. The words were quiet, gently chiding.

  “Congratulations, my darling daughter,” Edmund Carew said from the doorway of Bonheur. “I am delighted to wish you happy. I have just one concern: Who gave the bride away?”

  Renold stood perfectly still while Angelica turned with the soft stuff of her skirts brushing his legs under his trousers like the stinging silk fluff of nettles. Her eyes burned with blue fire and condemnation.

  Her voice was quiet as she spoke, yet he felt every word like a lash on his unprotected heart. “You said he was dead. Did you think — but no, you knew. You must have known. You might have married me once, otherwise, but never twice.”

  She turned then and ran from him, flinging herself into her father’s open arms. Above her head, Edmund Carew stared at Renold, the deserted bridegroom, with dark disdain.

  Renold knotted his hand into a fist and walked to where the two stood. He might have done more if not for the priest who moved swiftly after him to place a hand on his arm. He spoke for Angelica alone.

  “The reason for the excess nuptials, you think, is to make sure of the dowry? I would have married you,” he said, “if you had ten fathers living, and nothing to bring me other than your sweet bare self.”

  “Words,” she said, turning in her father’s hold, “always words. They may be pleasant to hear, but how can I tell what they are worth?”

  “They are worth what I make them, like the vows just sworn between us.”

  Carew’s voice cut between them. “There is such a thing as annulment.”

  Renold gave the man no more than a single glance. “Ineligible.”

  “Something you saw to with your usual thoroughness,” Angelica said, the words acidly accusing.

  “And with all the attendant joy and mindless rapture,” he agreed because he couldn’t help it.

  “Swine,” her father said, breathing hard through his nose that was pinched white around the nostrils. “I would like to call you out.”

  For a brief flicker of time, Renold evaluated the man as an opponent. Edmund Carew was gray of face and his body skeletal from the effects of the accident and his illness. There was no strength in him. It was difficult to see what held him upright other than pride and concern for his daughter. Renold felt his contempt leavened by a fleeting admiration.

  “Do,” he said in provocation, though he hoped the older man would ignore it.

  “No!” Angelica cried with the color receding from her face. “No,” she said again as she looked from one to the other. “Neither of you is in any condition to fight.”

  “More than that,” Carew said simply, “the game isn’t worth the ante. Come away with me, Angelica. Laurence is waiting outside. We will go to New Orleans where we will appeal to the law to put these people off our property. There is no need to stand here bandying words with the man who took advantage of you.”

  Laurence was not outside, Renold saw, but waiting in the shadows of the gallery beyond the door. The younger man was following the exchange with a look of gloating satisfaction on his weakly handsome face.

  Ignoring the former fiancé, Renold said, “No, no need at all to bandy words, unless they are tokens of love.” His gaze sought and held Angelica’s as he went on. “You are my wife. This time there is no denying, no doubt, no looking back. Bonheur is only bricks and boards and fallow fields without you by my side. I need you, and I can’t live without the promise of forever we made short minutes ago.”

  “Love?” Carew said. “What makes you think you know the meaning of the word?”

  In the affairs of men there was a rough justice, Renold recognized. Once, in his arrogance, he had pledged himself to make Angelica love him, then to force her to choose between her father and himself. He had wanted by that means to show Carew what it felt like to lose the thing he valued most, the love of his daughter. Now Carew had put that choice to Angelica, and it was he himself who must fight to keep her.

  To his left, his mother was on her feet, her face strained as she watched them. Deborah, who had moved from the pianoforte as the ceremony began, was standing next to Michel. Anger and dismay w
as mirrored in the faces of the other guests.

  “I know love,” Renold said in vibrant certainty. “It’s in a smile, a glance, the sound of a sigh in the night or laughter at noon. It’s the touch that takes ugliness from a scar, that gives and seeks warmth and does not flinch from bleeding wounds. It’s the sharing of pain and comfort in need, company in sunshine and rain. It’s bright beckoning hope, and also the unguarded meshing of hearts and minds that makes words unnecessary, or like alchemy, turns them to rich, indestructible gold. Love is the single person without whom nothing else has meaning. Love is Angelica.”

  A strained quiet fell. It almost seemed, as Edmund Carew stared at him, that there was sympathy in the older man’s face.

  Still, Angelica’s father shook his head. “I am aging and ill, and can make no pretty speeches. All I have to say is this: I cannot live without my daughter, and I will not try.”

  Simple, yet devastating.

  Renold saw the pain and pity and love the words roused in Angelica, and stilled himself to face what must come. And because he was fair and preferred a swift end to prolonged agony, he spoke in quiet inquiry. “Go or stay, my love? Which will it be?”

  She was no coward. She faced him and met his gaze more squarely than expected, also with more understanding and meaning than he might have wished. “You are my savior and my comfort, Renold. I love to laugh with you, and love with you, and to reach out with some thought and find that you have taken it, turned it, and made it more than I expected. You gave the desire, I gave you the passion you asked, but that isn’t enough. You lied to me for gain, you let me think my father was dead when he needed me. Now his need is greater, while you are so locked within yourself that you need me not at all.”

  “That might have been true once,” he said, “but no longer.”

  “I would like to believe that, but I can’t. And so the question you asked has only one answer. You know what it must be; you have always known, or you would have done things differently from the start.”