Gabrielle

by Theresa Conway

  He helped her into the carriage, and she had just begun to doze in the sunshine when de Marigny let out a cry. “Ho there, St. Claire!”

  She straightened and looked in the direction of his pointing finger.

  “There is my illustrious American comrade, my dear. Perhaps he will ride over this way and I will introduce you.”

  Gabrielle noticed the tall figure on the splendid horse, galloping over the fields, a female rider beside him. He was still perhaps a half a mile away, and she could distinguish little except that he was hatless and his hair shone a deep chestnut, nearly the same color as the satiny coat of his mount.

  “He rides with experience,” she commented.

  “Certainly it seems he does everything with experience,” Bernard returned, “but look at his companion. She is a magnificent horsewoman, too.”

  Gabrielle switched her attention to the woman, whose hair was flying out behind her like a silver banner. She was keeping pace with the man with seemingly effortless ease, but, as they neared the road, she suddenly veered off in the other direction, urging her horse to greater speed. With a hurried salute, the man changed directions and raced off in pursuit.

  Bernard, after returning the wave, chuckled to himself and signalled for the driver to move on. “Knowing Melissa, she will no doubt lure him back to the shade of one of those old cypresses and—” he hesitated. “Of course, it is none of my business.”

  Gabrielle, her curiosity aroused, asked him who the woman was.

  “Melissa Lawrence, another American. Her family came from England originally and settled in Virginia where her father made a fortune in tobacco. They moved here a few years ago and are one of the richest families in the state. She is an only child and, for all of her twenty-five years, is dreadfully spoiled. But St. Claire seems to be able to keep her in line very well. Of course, she’s the only woman who comes close to matching his spirit and temper. Rumor has it that they will be announcing their engagement in the near future.” He laughed. “I really can’t imagine either of them married, much less to each other.”

  “I’d like to meet them,” Gabrielle said, thinking aloud. De Marigny shrugged his shoulders. “You will, for I intend to bring you out to his house one day when we can arrange a small party.”

  “What—what do you mean? Certainly, your wife belongs with you—”

  “Anna comes out occasionally, but she has already Informed me that she prefers to stay with her own breed of friend—which translates that when she grows tired of country balls and such, she will retire in grand seclusion to the Maison Marigny in New Orleans. I hardly think she would object to my having a guest to keep me company when she will not remain with me.” His blue eyes sparkled devilishly.

  “Oh, Bernard, but she would be furious with you and-and what would people say?” Gabrielle went on, her lovely face troubled at his audacity.

  “Really, my dear, I thought you would not care so much for the gossips of the city. You seem spirited and somehow independent for all that charming vulnerability. Would you refuse me?”

  Gabrielle shook her head, suddenly sad. “How can I refuse you, Bernard? If we are honest with each other, we know that you are only attracted to me on a purely physical basis, and I to you because I have nowhere else to go. It’s funny—I lived those two years on Grande Terre, and yet the taste for luxury has never left me.”

  He took her hand and pressed it. “My poor little girl, have you not been listening to all my passionate declarations—or did you just dismiss them as the ramblings of an accomplished flirt? In spite of what you say, I do like you immensely, as a woman and as a friend.”

  “Oh, Bernard, you make me feel ashamed of myself,” Gabrielle murmured.

  “Good. It is the least I could have hoped for. And now I want you to dismiss those bothersome thoughts from your head. It’s true that this will be a business liaison of sorts, but I expect more from you than just an eager, willing body. There will be times when we will discuss things and go to the theater together—Anna hates it.”

  They were back in the city now, and de Marigny directed the driver back to Renée’s.

  “Now, I want you to wait for me tonight,” he whispered as he delivered her to the door. He tweaked her nose and kissed her mouth lightly. “Dress in something special for me, and I may have a surprise for you.” He kissed her again. “God, I’m not sure I can wait until tonight!”

  Gabrielle went inside and found Renée anxiously awaiting her return. She brought her into her office and closed the door firmly behind her. She bade Gabrielle be seated and came over to sit beside her, taking her hands in hers.

  “Now tell me, Gabrielle, what are the handsome de Marigny’s intentions?”

  Gabrielle smiled. “Far from honorable, I’m afraid,” she teased.

  Renée brushed aside her levity. “I may as well tell you, my dear, that I have decided that under no circumstances are you to be subjected to the situation you were in last night. I don’t care if I have to lock you in your room—you will not come downstairs any more.”

  “Bernard’s words exactly,” Gabrielle responded promptly.

  Renée’s face held suspicion. “Then, what are his plans?”

  “He wishes to make me his mistress,” she said in a quieter voice. “But I will have to remain in your house until he finds other rooms for me. I—I didn’t ask him about the financial arrangements, of course, but I do hope he can install me somewhere outside the city. That’s where we went today, and the countryside is so beautiful. I always did like our summers in the country in France,” she said softly, “although I did look forward to being in the city again. I suppose I have had enough of that already and long to get away from so many people.”

  Renée sat back in her chair and laced her fingers over her stomach. “Well then, it seems that de Marigny is a shrewd businessman after all. I am happy for you, my dear.”

  Gabrielle smiled, and her face was at peace for a moment. Then her eyes grew misty, and she spoke in a very low voice. “Isn’t life strange, Renée—that I should be so grateful about becoming the mistress of a man who, in Paris, would have had to ask for my hand in marriage or be thrown out of the house in disgrace—or worse! Sometimes, in my dreams, I remember the balls and parties—did I tell you that I was introduced to the Emperor Napoleon himself? Such an innocent I was then—so naive about the world, untouched, still a virgin until—” She frowned as though trying to remember.

  “Until—?” Renée prompted gently.

  Gabrielle sighed. “A man came along and changed my world.”

  “What else?” Renée smiled, her eyes reflecting her understanding. “Was he your lover?”

  Gabrielle shook her head swiftly. “He was a very handsome man,” she said half to herself. “A—dashing man—oh, you would have liked him, Renée. That’s funny, I’ve always thought I would hate him until the day I died, but now I barely remember his face and it seems I have little hatred left.”

  “That’s as it should be, Gabrielle. Most of us always carry a special attachment to the man who was the first. I suppose it’s feminine nature.”

  “I suppose,” Gabrielle agreed, then shook her head as though to rid it of such thoughts of the past. “I think I’ll take a bath. Bernard will be here after dinner, and I may be too nervous to eat.”

  She hurried upstairs and to her room where she found Dolly awaiting her.

  “How wonderful for you, Gabrielle!” she cried, hugging her enthusiastically. “I’m beginning to think you will get all of the luck, and I’ll probably be here when I’m as old as Renée. I think she’s hoping I’ll take over for her, someday.”

  “Oh, Dolly, you’ll find the right man one of these days.”

  “Oh, you may be right. But I don’t know—even if he came along now, I might not want to go with him.” She smiled. “Anyway, we’re not talking about me now. When do you think you will be moving?”

  “I’m not sure. I really can’t think about that now. Perhaps in a fe
w days.”

  A discreet knock on the door signalled Sara’s entrance with towels and soap, followed by Hugh, lugging the copper tub with the help of another servant.

  “Please heat some water, Sara, and bring it as quickly as you can,” Gabrielle directed.

  When Sara had filled the tub, Gabrielle sank blissfully into it, and Dolly handed her the scented soap. As the fragrance of a field of flowers filled the room, the girls talked on about the future, about Bernard de Marigny, and about news of the war.

  “Most of the fighting has been up north, of course,” Dolly was saying. “But one of my customers said that there was a good chance the British might try to take New Orleans.”

  “Well, let’s hope it’s only a rumor,” Gabrielle responded.

  “Unfortunately, the numerous British successes on land seem to have no effect on their naval conflicts,” Dolly went on.

  “Unfortunately for whom?” Gabrielle teased. “Renée seems to think that the British generals are just licking their lips at the chance to capture New Orleans. It would be quite a plum for them, considering they’d have a ready-made harbor right in the Americans’ backyard.”

  “Whew! I hate to think of those stuffy English,” Dolly commented wryly. “I doubt if we’d get any business from them.”

  “Always the business girl,” Gabrielle laughed. “But Dolly, do you really think that the British could defeat the Americans?”

  “It’s not the Americans we’d have to worry about, Gabrielle, but the Creoles—you know they’d do anything to escape a war!”

  The two girls agreed.

  “I’ve heard your homeland has some troubles of her own, too,” Dolly put in after a moment.

  “The fiasco of Russia?” Gabrielle asked, her brow troubled. “I know that news from Europe reaches us dreadfully slowly these days, but it seems my former emperor has been neatly outfoxed by that crafty Alexander. It’s hard to understand how Czar Alexander could actually order the burning of his own great city, Moscow.”

  Dolly nodded thoughtfully. “I suppose he knew he would have to take drastic measures to outsmart Bonaparte,” she commented. “Can you imagine trudging through all those miles of snow and ice and cold? They say thousands of French troops were killed by the elements alone!”

  Gabrielle found herself thinking again of Paris, recalling Isabel and her new husband, Henri, her brother, Pierre de Montfort—and Charles de Chevalier. Were all of these people who had been so close to her but now seemed so very far away—were all of them safe after such a defeat?

  She found herself conjuring up pictures of Isabel huddling for warmth in a tent, waiting vainly for her husband to return. Pierre, dear sweet Pierre—so thin and somehow so vulnerable, not really made for war—could he have withstood the terrible winter and the long trek back to Prance? And of course, Charles—the virile, golden-haired warrior, pathetically scarred by his mother’s indifference. Somehow she couldn’t imagine him meeting his end on the battlefield, in the Russian snow, although she knew that that is where he would have wished to die, rather than go home to an ignominious defeat.

  “Gabrielle—you’re thinking of—of your friends again?” Dolly cut through her daydreaming.

  Gabrielle sighed and nodded. “Forgive me. I couldn’t help wondering about them. . .

  Chapter Twenty-six

  “So nice of you to join us for dinner, my boy!” said Thomas Lawrence in his heartiest voice as he stood below the candles, his bald pate shining pale in the reflected glow.

  “Thank you, Mr. Lawrence, I appreciate your hospitality,” replied Rafe St. Claire with only the faintest trace of sarcasm, undetectable, in his words.

  “Please call me Thomas,” the older man insisted, glancing covertly at his only daughter’s happy face.

  St. Claire nodded, and his eyes, too, went to Melissa Lawrence’s face—not the prettiest of faces, he had to admit, but with an expression about the mouth and eyes that promised the most seductive of natures. St. Claire smiled to himself, and the smile was scornful.

  “Do come and sit down, Rafe. It’s been so long since you’ve dined with us,” Melissa rushed hurriedly, drawing him inside the dining room, her hands laid possessively on his sleeve.

  St. Claire followed her in, bowing politely to Mrs. Lawrence—Sadie, as she also insisted. He glanced about the room which spelled out wealth—new wealth—and wondered whose poor taste had gone into the decorating—probably Melissa’s, as her father let her do everything around the house.

  “Your ride has put a glow in your cheeks, darling,” Sadie commented to her daughter as she replaced a stray lock of the silvery hair.

  Melissa brushed her mother’s hand away impatiently. “I do enjoy riding, mother. It’s one of the things I find least boring—and especially when Rafe accompanies me. He does ride superlatively, don’t you think, papa?”

  Thomas agreed enthusiastically. “That’s a fine piece of horseflesh you have, Rafe. Arabian stock?”

  Rafe nodded. “I purchased him in Virginia on my last trip home. He is magnificent”

  Thomas reflected his interest. “Home? Why, Melissa, you didn’t tell me that Rafe had made a trip home. When was it? Did you hear anything more of the war?”

  Rafe shrugged arrogantly. “It was nearly four months ago, last fall. My father was ill, and I was called home rather suddenly by my brother, Philip.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. How is your father?” Sadie interrupted, looking suitably concerned.

  “He’s dead,” Rafe said quietly, but his green eyes narrowed ruthlessly.

  “Oh—oh dear,” Sadie said distractedly. “I’m sorry, Rafe.”

  “Mother, you’re repeating yourself,” Melissa said with obvious irritation. “Unfortunately, Rafe wasn’t all that close to his father, and the trip was more or less the conventional thing, wasn’t it, darling?” She smiled at him, her blue eyes slanting at the corners.

  Rafe was careful to keep the disdain out of his own eyes. “More or less,” he affirmed inscrutably.

  “If your father is dead, then, that is—I suppose you came into quite a great deal of—of real estate in Virginia,” Thomas began, clearing his throat twice. “This damned war with the English must give you cause for grave concern as far as your holdings go. Do you have any doubts as to the safety of your home?”

  The smile that shaped that sensual mouth was definitely laced with sarcasm now. “My home is here in Louisiana, Thomas. Philip got the house in Virginia, as I would have wished. Chances are it will be burned before the war is over anyway. My father’s will provided very little for me in the way of real estate. What he did leave me, I converted into dollars as soon as possible.”

  Thomas had gotten very red in the face and now seemed to have difficulty in choosing the right words. “But, dammit, man, I mean—real estate—that land is some of the best tobacco-growing country in the world! How could you have let it go? And your brother, isn’t he younger than you? As the eldest, I would think your father would have seen the title in your name instead of—”

  “Papa, Rafe didn’t want to go back to Virginia,” Melissa put in sweetly. “He wanted to come back here with me, didn’t you?” Once more those ice-blue orbs slanted upwards provocatively at him, and Rafe couldn’t help the insolent grin that came to his lips.

  “The truth is, Thomas,” he said, “that I don’t give a damn about that land, Virginia, or tobacco, for that matter. I’ve built Fairview here in New Orleans, and I intend to make something of it one day. My father and I saw eye to eye about my stand on that, and he was aware that Philip was hungry for the old homestead. It mattered little to me, as I saw a profit of over half a million dollars by selling out when I did. Poor Philip is trying desperately to get out now with the British advancing, and can’t get a penny an acre.”

  Thomas’ eyes had bulged considerably at the amount of money St. Claire had so casually listed. “I—I see your logic, my boy and—and I must congratulate you on your wisdom. I—I must say, it does my old hea
rt good to see my Melissa in the company of a wise young man like yourself instead of one of those Creole dandies she used to fly away about.”

  Melissa shot a darting look at her father. “Papa, how you do run on! You know very well that I never flew about after any of those boys. More than likely, their fathers were the ones trying to push them into—into marriage with a rich, young American girl.” She glanced wickedly at St. Claire. “Isn’t it wonderful to know that Rafe would never want to marry me for my money?”

  “Marry you!” Sadie burst out excitedly. “Oh, my God! Rafe, Melissa, when—”

  “Mother, please,” Melissa said angrily. “Rafe—hasn’t asked me—yet.”

  Oh, Christ, in another moment she’ll have me down on one knee—just for practice, Rafe thought in mingled irritation and amusement. He looked at the silvery-haired bitch and thought what a lovely whore she would make— but a wife. . . ! The thought was nearly laughable.

  At the uncomfortable silence that filled Melissa’s last words, Sadie rang the bell for dinner to be served. Servants glided swiftly and noiselessly about the room, serving the delicious courses, still hot from the stove. At least, Rafe thought, Melissa knew how to discipline her servants—by what means, he had no wish to find out.

  “You’re quiet tonight, darling,” Melissa whispered as the last course was taken away.

  He shrugged. “It was a wonderful meal, Melissa. I can think of a fitting dessert,” he answered insolently.

  She laughed and cast her eyes about the table as though to check on whether either of her parents had overhead. But Rafe was well aware that, had they heard, the Lawrences were unlikely to make any mention of it. Jesus! He could probably make love to their daughter on the dining room floor while they were sipping their cordials, and they would act as though nothing out of the ordinary were happening. Perhaps Sadie, always the polite hostess, would inquire gravely if he needed a pillow. The thought caused a dry chuckle to escape him, and Melissa, thinking she knew the reason, smiled slyly.