by Shirl Henke
“Oh, my, you seem to have been caught in the sun without a parasol,” she cooed viciously. Her aunt simply gaped and several of the other women whispered behind their fans.
Deborah was rooted to the ground in horror, stunned at her mother-in-law's cunning. I'll grind up those oysters, shells and all, and put them in her facial cream! Composing herself, she ignored the simpering Minnette and tittering matrons. Instead she concentrated on the formidable Celine.
“You planned this flawlessly, Mother Celine,” she said evenly. “I must compliment you. Too bad Rafael isn't here to witness my public humiliation, but I'm certain Miss Gautier will have described my discomfort to half of New Orleans by nightfall—right down to the stench of seaweed,” she added, noting the way Minnette's dainty nose wrinkled. The little Creole swished her skirt carefully away from Deborah's and gasped in outrage at the insult.
“Minnette doesn't need to tell me, Deborah. I'm here to see for myself.” Rafael's tone was as deadly as his murderous facial expression. He strode swiftly across the courtyard from the stairs he had just descended. His eyes swept disgustedly from her stringy hair down to her filthy sweat-soaked skirts, then back up to her face, glistening with perspiration and smudged with dirt. Glaring at her, he said, “If you ladies will excuse us, my wife and I have things to discuss upstairs.”
Too shocked to protest more, Deborah watched him bow and kiss Minnette's fingers, nod tersely to Celine and the rest of the entourage, and then take her elbow in a bone-crushing grip, ushering her toward the stairs to their quarters. He did not speak until they were in their apartment. “If you ever again appear before my mother's friends in this condition, I swear I'll take you to the plantation upriver and lock you away for a year!”
“I didn't appear before them—I was entrapped. She asked me to select oysters at the market and then sent off those invitations deliberately—even dragged me into the courtyard to confront her guests!” What had begun in anger ended in sorrow. She was just too humiliated to be angry. “Your mother despises me, Rafael.” Her eyes made an unspoken plea for his support.
“Small wonder if she didn't! You've done nothing but give her embarrassment and aggravation. If you stayed home and dressed as a lady instead of traipsing around with the servants, this whole thing would never have happened,” he snapped. Damn, he was mightily fed up with women—Lily, Celine, and Deborah!
“I suppose if I were picture-perfect like Minnette you'd be pleased with me?” She hadn't meant it to sound so jealous.
He threw up his hands in a Gallic gesture of disgust, then paced furiously over to the cabinet where crystal glasses and cool water were kept. “Devil take that prissy little flirt. Mother favored her, I certainly never did. Forget Minnette Gautier and think of me. You're my wife and you have certain duties and obligations to me. You—”
“Yes, and what about your duties and obligations to me, husband!” she interrupted him acidly, stung beyond words that he would always side with his parents against her. “You were gone all night without even the courtesy of a note to explain where you'd be. Since you always place the worst construction on my actions, maybe I should do the same with yours.” She held her breath, horrified at what anger had goaded her into blurting out, but even more afraid of what he might confess.
He poured a glass of water and took a drink, his back to her. Then he turned and smiled, but the warmth of his lips never reached the chilly depths of his eyes. “Perhaps if I had a sweet-smelling, beautifully dressed wife to come home to, I might be more tempted.”
Deborah fought down the urge to start ripping books from the shelves behind her and hurling them at the scoundrel. She had bathed and dressed in lace and silk for him, waiting all night in their bed alone, but she would never give him the satisfaction of knowing that now. Wordlessly, she turned and walked toward the bedroom.
Chapter Ten
For the next three days, the Flamenco household was in chaos as the servants packed and prepared for the annual move to the lake house. Deborah was so busy with preparations that she fell into bed each night too exhausted to cry. Her estrangement from her husband continued.
He and Deborah spoke only when necessary and her sense of isolation within the family increased. Celine snubbed her, Claude disdained her, and Rafael ignored her. Only Lenore was sympathetic.
However, Lenore had her own difficulties, as Deborah was well aware. Celine hounded her daughter incessantly about an official betrothal announcement and marriage plans with Georges Beaurivage. So far, her father was disposed to heed her tearful pleas to wait; but Deborah knew he and Rafael would force the issue sooner or later. If they discovered her trysts with Caleb Armstrong, it would be sooner. Deborah resolved to broach the subject and find out just what was going on between her sister-in-law and the charming Yankee.
An opportunity to talk in private with Lenore did not present itself for several days; but when she saw the girl return from one of her outings, supposedly to the shoemaker, Deborah decided to act. Celine was in the dining room supervising the packing and the men had gone for a meeting with their factor. Intercepting Lenore on the gallery, Deborah invited her to her quarters for lemonade.
Once Tonette had brought the refreshment and was dismissed, Deborah fixed Lenore with a level gaze and said, “How is Caleb, Lenore?”
In shock, Lenore splashed lemonade on her dress. “How did you—we were so careful...” Her voice was a whisper and she could not meet Deborah's eyes.
Sitting down beside her, Deborah took the glass from her hands and placed it on a small table, then grasped Lenore's cold fingers in her own and gently squeezed them. “Look at me, Lenore. I'm your friend. I want to be certain you don't get hurt, that this man isn't taking advantage of a gently reared girl.”
Lenore's blue eyes widened and flew to meet Deborah's. “Oh, no. You don't think that we—that he—oh, Deborah, he's been a perfect gentleman! Of course, I know we didn't have a chaperon, but how could we—with my family so set against him?”
“How long have you known him?” Deborah's heart went out to the sad, gentle young woman.
“We met last fall when he first went into business with Mister Gautier and Mister du May. We accidentally collided on the stairs. Oh, Deborah, he was so charming and handsome. Nothing like Creole suitors who are vain and dress like peacocks!”
Lenore launched into a long description of how that first innocent encounter blossomed into a secret romance. At first they met at the opera, the market, and several cafes popular with the young people of New Orleans. Then one evening at a dance, he asked her to take a carriage ride with him the following day. She had been daring and accepted. After that they met in private every week. When he wanted to approach her parents, she confessed the betrothal agreement between her and Cousin Georges. Caleb railed against something so medieval in the nineteenth century.
“Do you love Caleb, Lenore? Enough to defy your family and marry him?” Deborah asked gently.
“I’m not like Mama, Deborah. I don't want to live the kind of life she does. Since I've met Caleb, I've learned so much. He's traveled to St. Petersburg and Rome and London—even to Africa.” Her face reflected confusion and embarrassment as she hesitated, then plunged on with, “I know you don't hold with slavery and neither does Caleb. Oh, Deborah, he told me some sickening things about how they capture and ship the Congos to the New World. I never thought about that part of it—how they got here. They were once free in their own land.”
“All the more reason for your family to dislike Caleb,” Deborah said dryly, amazed at how Armstrong had changed Lenore's outlook. “Are you sure this doesn't make you a bit of a bluestocking instead of a Creole belle, Lenore?” she teased, then asked seriously, “Has Caleb asked you to marry him?”
“Oh yes, of course, but...” Lenore's face flamed and she went on in a low murmur, “there is one thing...” In a misery of embarrassment, she stood up and walked over to the window. With her back turned she said, “I'm afraid—oh, not of
Caleb. He's always been gentle and he's so very handsome, but after we're married, I'm afraid it'll be different. Mama has told me it's awful but women have to endure it. I don't feel that way when he kisses me—oh!” She reddened even more at her slip. “Deborah, all he's done is kiss me a few times.”
If Deborah's dislike of her mother-in-law needed any further fueling, that was being provided now. She walked over and put her hand gently on Lenore's shoulder. “Don't listen to your mother, Lenore. She's wrong, so wrong. If you love a man and he loves you, it can be beautiful, even breathtakingly pleasurable. If you liked a few simple kisses, let me assure you what follows is a thousand times more wonderful.”
Lenore's blush didn't lessen as she turned and looked Deborah in the eye. “I—I thought you and Rafael weren't like Mama and Papa. I've watched you dance and exchange glances and touch. Oh, Deborah, I hope it will be that way for Caleb and me!”
Deborah silently hoped for a very different relationship for Lenore and her American. There was far more to a successful marriage than pleasure in bed. She certainly had that with Rafael, but now she was coming to realize that she possessed little else besides her husband's body.
* * * *
Deborah sat in the open carriage with her parasol defiantly tipped back so the sun hit her face fully. Every irritated glare shot her way from Celine was matched by a carefully concealed but impish smile of conspiracy from Lenore. Creole ladies were deathly afraid of having their skin sun-darkened. It was not only unfashionable, but there hovered the threat of being “kissed by the tar brush,” a Southern euphemism for a family's having any faint strain of African blood in their ancestry. Deborah felt all the more incentive to sun herself because it irked her mother-in-law and defied Creole bigotry.
The baleful pall of New Orleans humidity lifted as they neared Lake Pontchartrain. The spicy scent of pines was in the air and a slight breeze carried the fragrance gently toward the women in the carriage and the men on horseback.
As they rode, Rafael watched the interplay between his wife, mother and sister. He was becoming increasingly alarmed at how readily Lenore adopted Deborah's ideas and outspoken manner. If the foolish child was not careful, she could ruin her reputation. He watched the way Deborah and Celine fenced with words and Lenore's attempts to intercede on her sister-in-law's behalf. Tonight, he would confront his father and urge him to end the women's squabble once and for all. Lenore would marry Georges and be safely removed from his wife's influence.
Even as Deborah angered him, he felt himself drawn to her moonlight-delicate beauty in the midday heat. He had not touched her in nearly two weeks. In town, he had Lily to assuage his needs, but once at the lake house, he would claim his conjugal rights again. Damn, just looking at her makes me want to ravish her! Months of marriage had not cooled his ardor for her. Fearfully, he wondered if years would.
Lake Pontchartrain materialized in front of them like a rippling aqua carpet, brilliant in the noonday sun. In front of them was one of the most imposing houses Deborah had ever seen, two stories high with a spacious porch circling around it. Both stories were set with wide double doors to catch every hint of lake breeze. The house was painted a pastel green, lush and cool, shaded by tall live oaks towering over it. It was situated on a slight rise, which fell off about one hundred yards to the water. Ornamental and vegetable gardens spread around the lake side of the house, and off to the northwest, a large brick dairy room sat beneath a cluster of live oaks.
As Deborah took in the panorama, Lenore told her about all the comforts in this vast domain that the Flamenco family had built in order to escape summers on the sugar plantation much farther upriver. “Why, we even have an underground ice house just out back. All our punch and lemonade will be cold,” Lenore bubbled.
“I can't wait to see the inside. It looks so cool and inviting.” After the cloying heat of New Orleans Deborah longed to sit on the upstairs veranda and feel the fresh lake breeze.
“You and Deborah will have the quarters on the north side,” Celine said to Rafael. There was only one bedroom in the suite, but the sitting room could easily be refurbished into a second one if he so desired.
As if reading her mind, Rafael answered. “My old room will suit us fine, Mama.”
Rafael's “old room” was magnificent with a splendid view of the lake, polished cypress floors, and comfortable leather furniture. The large four-poster bed was positioned directly across from the open double doors.
Watching Deborah eye the bed as she stood in the center of the large room, Rafael walked up behind her and placed his hands possessively on her shoulders. “Tonight”—he punctuated his speech with a brief nuzzling kiss to her neck—“we'll put this bed to good use.”
Deborah stiffened at the unexpected embrace, even more at his words. “I was under the impression you found our ‘forced’ marriage so unpleasant that you no longer wanted to share a bed with me,” she snapped.
He laughed softly and turned her in his arms, ignoring her resistance. “Ah, so you've missed my nightly attentions, have you?”
She colored in mortification, hating herself because it was true. “I'm sure you found other amusements with which to replace me,” she said, struggling to sound detached.
“Perhaps,” he replied in that low silky voice she both loved and resented for its hypnotic effect on her, “but I can't produce any legal Flamenco heirs that way.”
Rafael could not have elicited a more pained reaction if he had struck her. He felt her stiffen and push him away, turning her face to hide the tears forming in her eyes. Why did I say that? he raged to himself, recalling his earlier words about being forced to marry her. That had begun this estrangement and now he had just made it worse. Damn! I'm a blundering ass!
She broke free of his hold and fled across the room to stand silhouetted in the doorway to the porch. Her face was chalky pale. “I might have known your only motives for coming near me were related to family duty—proper Creole duty!” Her voice dripped with scorn. “Why don't you apply for an annulment, Rafael? After all, you married me against your will and I'll never be a proper Creole wife. Your father, your mother, and you be damned if you think you'll make me over into something I'm not!”
His first impulse was to throw her on the bed, rip off her clothes, and make love to her. He took several menacing steps toward her before his sanity reasserted itself. His parents and sister were in adjacent rooms. Everyone would hear the ensuing battle, and one look at Deborah's mutinously set chin convinced him that if would indeed be a battle royal.
He stopped and said coldly, “I wouldn't dream of forcing you to do something so distasteful as endure my touch, madam. As to an annulment, I'll give it serious consideration.” With that he turned sharply on his heel and stormed from the room.
That night they lay stiffly in the dark, side by side in the big bed. Both were grateful that it was large enough that they did not have to touch. Their mutual misery hung in the warm summer air.
The next morning when Lenore offered to show her the lake area, Deborah quickly agreed. She desperately needed some physical activity to occupy her mind and body. They rode accompanied by Gaspar, one of the black stable hands. Lenore pointed out various elegant summer houses. Most belonged to friends of the family, but a few on the outlying north end of the lake road had been built by Americans.
One, a lovely Greek revival house of small, exquisite proportions, was set back in a secluded area surrounded by pines. “That house is lovely, Lenore.”
Lenore flushed and fidgeted with the reins of her small tan filly. “It belongs to Caleb.”
Deborah smiled and said gently, “And that's why you rode in this direction?”
“Oh, he's not here now. He only comes to the lake at the end of the week when he has time free from his work.”
“At least he works,” Deborah said acerbically. “Were you able to talk with him before we left the city?”
Lenore looked away once more and answered in a whisper, �
�Yes, but we quarreled. He insists on confronting Papa and asking for permission to court me.”
Deborah scowled. “I can just imagine how much good that would do!”
“Exactly, but I fear I didn't convince him. He hates seeing me in secret.”
“You'll have to make a choice soon, Lenore.” Deborah knew how difficult it would be for her young sister-in-law to break her ties with mother, father, brother, and all Creole society. She might well conclude that Caleb was not worth the sacrifice. A small voice niggled in the back of her mind, Was Rafael worth the sacrifice for you?
They rode back in subdued silence, each lost in unhappy thoughts. After Gaspar led the horses off for a rubdown, they entered the house from the side door. Loud, angry voices greeted them—men's voices speaking in English—Claude Flamenco's thick accent and Caleb Armstrong's clipped New England tones.
“I have done nothing dishonorable, sir. I love your daughter and I want to marry her.”
“She is already betrothed. It is settled. Now, will you leave my property or shall I set our hounds on you?” Claude's voice was growing more strident with every word.
“With or without your blessing, I will marry Lenore. Rest assured of it, sir.” Caleb's voice was suddenly louder as he burst through the study door into the hall where he almost collided with Lenore and Deborah.
Lenore clutched Deborah's sleeve, then took a halting step toward Caleb. He reached out to take her in his arms; but her father's voice stopped her the instant before she stepped into Caleb's comforting embrace.
Claude's normally swarthy complexion was mottled dark red as he hissed in French, “Lenore, go at once to your room lest I have your brother call this barbaric intruder onto the field of honor—if he possesses any honor, which I doubt!”
