“—A trait she shares with only one other woman in this room,” Bernard whispered back, gliding her smoothly across the floor.
“No, no, you don’t understand,” Gabrielle went on, ignoring the compliment. “She seems to think that I have been treated so shabbily by Rafe St. Claire that he should immediately make amends by marrying me!” and she shuddered at the thought.
“And what is so remarkable about that?” he asked her.
She looked directly into that blue gaze. “He would hate me, Bernard! You know as well as I that Rafe St. Claire will not have someone tell him whom he will marry. And besides—I’m not sure that I should enjoy the prospect of being his wife.”
Bernard gazed at her, a smile of amusement playing about his lips. “Ah, now, we aren’t being truthful, are we? You’re in love with him, my darling.”
While she averted her gaze, Bernard chuckled. “It’s just too bad that the fool doesn’t realize what a prize he owns now.”
Gabrielle would have said something in return, but she felt suddenly the force of someone’s eyes on her, and, as Bernard swung her around, she encountered Rafe’s arrogant glare reaching across to her even as he tightened his hold on Melissa. She remembered suddenly their earlier argument over her conversation with Bernard—and now, to have him dancing with her must be making him very angry indeed! Well, what would he expect her to do? she wondered defiantly, just sit meekly against the wall for the rest of the evening while he pawed over his lady friend?
She tilted her chin and matched him look for look, infuriated to see his glare turn into a look of amused calculation. She concentrated on the steps of the dance, determined not to think of him anymore. Afterwards, she was thankful for Madame Claiborne’s patronage, for she did not lack for partners, much to Melissa’s fury.
“Your little mistress hardly seems lonesome without you, darling,” Melissa egged Rafe as they sipped chilled wine on the terrace.
He frowned slightly. “No.”
Melissa watched the movement he made bringing the glass to his lips, then touched him on the shoulder, pressing her breasts against him. “Let’s not think of her, my darling. Why not go inside and—and surprise everyone with news of our betrothal? I should think that declaration would at least cause her impudent smile to disappear,” she said craftily.
He shrugged. “I should think it very stupid of myself to trade one bitch for another,” he said brutally.
At first, Melissa could not believe the harsh finality of his words. Then, as her mind finally accepted them, she drew back her hand and struck him as hard as she could, enraged that he should speak to her so. She noticed someone walking down the steps leading into the garden and was about to call out when she saw that it was none other than “that young woman” herself, escorted by Bernard de Marigny. She turned back in triumph to where Rafe was staring at her with disdainful contempt.
“Look for yourself, for I believe your mistress is planning to dally with a mutual acquaintance,” she pointed out, noticing the look of anger that suddenly encompassed his face. For a brief moment she almost regretted her action, but there was nothing she could do as he stormed past her.
Gabrielle and Bernard had not noticed the couple standing above them on the balcony when he had suggested they get some air. Gabrielle had been glad to accept this suggestion after the last dance, for she had felt a little dizzy, a timely reminder that she was three months gone with child. She took Bernard’s arm, and they walked to the far exit that led to the gardens, revelling in the unexpected coolness outside on this normally hot July evening.
They walked through the neatly groomed trails winding through the trees and bushes, all emanating a well-cared-for air. She hugged his arm spontaneously, causing his heart to quicken unaccountably at her nearness.
“Madame Claiborne is very kind,” she said absently, bending to sniff at a blossoming jasmine. She felt Bernard’s arms going around her, lifting her up to him, and she turned with a start of surprise to see his eyes soft with desire.
“Did I tell you already how lovely you look?” he said in a husky voice, pressing his face into her hair and breathing in the fragrance of the blossoms pinned there.
“Bernard, please, you mustn’t,” she said.
He sighed. “I mustn’t—that’s all you seem able to tell me,” he said ruefully, looking down at her. “Every other woman here tonight would protest very little, if at all. Unfortunately, it is my own fault that they all seem to compare so unfavorably with yourself. You’re bewitching me, Gabrielle. If I were free, I'd marry you myself!”
“Oh, Bernard, sometimes I wish—”
“What would you wish, you little bitch?”
Both of them turned to see Rafe St. Claire standing in the middle of the path, his face carved from stone. “I’m truly surprised that you didn’t accept his offer, as it seems you enjoy his company so well.”
Bernard stepped easily in front of Gabrielle, his eyes taking in the fury on Rafe’s face. “Now, St. Claire, you and I have been friends for a good many years. It seems to me that you are reading Gabrielle wrong in this situation. If anyone is to blame, it is myself.”
“I blame you both equally,” Rafe said scornfully. “I would expect this little scene from you, de Marigny, as you have a propensity for bringing agreeable ladies out into a garden for a quick roll in the grass, but—”
“I resent that!” Bernard said quickly, his Creole temper beginning to surface. “I suggest you return inside, m’sieur, and leave me to escort Miss de Beauvoir home. I will tolerate your rudeness only on the grounds that you may have drunk a bit too much wine tonight in honor of our hostess’s birthday.”
“And I would suggest you leave the lady, and I use the term loosely, and myself alone, de Marigny. This is none of your affair. I will dismiss your earlier remarks.”
“M’sieur, I think it is my affair. I don’t doubt but that you will unleash your temper on Miss de Beauvoir, and I will not tolerate it. Now, if you will excuse me, I am taking her home.”
St. Claire barred the way effectively, and Gabrielle, seeing the naked rage in his eyes, felt a coldness within her. “De Marigny, you will quit us at once,” he spoke savagely. “Do you think I’m fool enough to think you’ll obligingly take her home and leave her to her own bed?”
Gabrielle stared in horror at the two men. She must stop this at once! They were both being dangerously stubborn. Quickly, she stepped from behind Bernard.
“Please, Rafe, don’t forget that Bernard is your friend. He only—”
With a movement too quick to be detained, Rafe’s hand shot out and struck her across the face. “Whore! You’ll come home with me, and I warn you that what you experienced earlier today was mild compared to what you’ll get tonight!”
He made a lunge for her arm, but Bernard, enraged now, caught him fairly on the jaw with his fist. “You would strike a woman, so I believe you have very little honor, m’sieur. But what is left should be obliged to meet with me tomorrow at dawn beneath the Oaks. I trust you will be there?”
Gabrielle, her hand to her bruised cheek, realized that Bernard had just challenged Rafe to a duel. “No, no! Bernard, please—you can’t do this.”
“Quiet, Gabrielle, please,” Bernard said, striving to regain his composure. He glanced at the other man. “Do you accept the challenge?”
Rafe shrugged with amusement. “Do you expect me to fight you over a whore? I’ll forget what you said, and you will leave us alone now.”
“She’s not a whore, St. Claire, as you well know. She’s a lady, and yet you treat her little better than a servant You’re worse than a cur!”
By this time, several others had gathered, disturbed by the commotion outside. Among them was the governor himself, with Madame Claiborne close beside him. Melissa, who realized that her goading had achieved results far beyond what she had intended, laid a timid hand on Rafe’s shoulder.
“Please, Rafe, take me inside now. Let’s—”
He s
hook off her hand as he would a bothersome insect. Realizing that now she had truly lost him, Melissa stared at his back for a moment, then buried her face in her hands and sobbed uncontrollably.
“Now, see here, Rafe, and you too, Bernard, I think we should all go back inside and reason this out in a calmer atmosphere,” the governor was saying.
“There is nothing to reason out,” Rafe said coolly now, his anger under control. “This woman is going home with me, and M’sieur de Marigny is going to go home to his own wife.”
“You’ll meet me at six-thirty tomorrow morning, St. Claire, or everyone here is witness to your cowardice,” Bernard seethed.
Gabrielle saw Rafe’s face pale and his jaw tighten. A thick silence seemed to muffle the group—then in a low voice and bowing slightly, Rafe accepted his challenge. “All right then, shall we say swords?”
Bernard inclined his head quickly. “And as to Miss de Beauvoir—”
“I shall see to her,” Madame Claiborne spoke up firmly. Leading a trembling Gabrielle back into the house, the two women left the terrible scene.
“Oh my God!” Gabrielle wept, “I can’t let this happen. I—I don’t understand—”
Suzette patted her hand. “We can never understand the pride and unreasoning stubborness that cause men to kill each other in the name of honor,” she said, “but unfortunately, it’s part of our world, Gabrielle.” She took her upstairs and helped her to calm herself.
“But if Rafe is killed—I’ll—’”
“He won’t be killed,” Suzette soothed her. “Bernard is the best swordsman in New Orleans, but he’s not a vindictive man. He’ll most likely wound him just enough to call an end to it. I’ve never known him to duel to the death. A spurt of blood—this will satisfy him. And perhaps it will put some sense into the man you so obviously love.”
“But Rafe, is he not an excellent swordsman?” Gabrielle demanded.
Suzette shrugged. “He is,” she admitted reluctantly. She smiled suddenly to herself. “I must admit, it should be an entertaining match.”
Gabrielle stared at her in astonishment. How could she be so carefree about it? Somehow, her thoughts turned back to something someone had said a long time ago. What was it?
Almost unwillingly, Lafitte’s voice came to mind. . . . “I hear his sword is nearly as swift as de Marigny’s. Ah, now that would be a duel to watch....”
Chapter Thirty-four
Gabrielle lay sleepless in the bed in the Governor’s House on Toulouse Street, not even a block away from her own house. She looked at the clock—five-thirty. She rose from the bed and paced the room frantically, conjuring up thoughts of Rafe lying dead on the ground—the father of the child whose life quickened beneath her breast. Or Bernard! Could she live with the thought that she had been the cause of his death?
Making up her mind quickly, she threw off the nightgown that Suzette had given her and hurriedly dressed in the clothes she had worn the previous evening. With stealthy swiftness, she slipped down the hall and downstairs, out into the kitchens where the cook and two maids were already awake, yawning sleepily over coffee.
Once out in the street, Gabrielle raced towards her house, praying that Rafe would still be there. She arrived breathless and with a stitch in her side, gasping as she pounded on the door. A yawning Jane opened the door and stared at her mistress in surprise.
“What—what time is it?” Gabrielle asked hurriedly as Jane helped her inside and off with her cloak.
“Just a little before six,” Jane answered.
“Where is Mr. St. Claire? Has he not been here at all?”
Jane shook her head. “No, should he be? I thought you had decided to stay at Fairview when you didn’t return,” Jane said, watching Gabrielle don her cloak once again.
“What am I to do, Jane?” she demanded of the girl. “The father of this child may be killed today. I’ve got to stop the duel!”
Jane, struggling to understand the situation, came up with an idea. “Hitch the wagon, Will!” she called to the stableboy, then turned to Gabrielle. “The wagon is a lot faster to hitch up than the carriage, and Will can still drive you to The Oaks in twenty minutes.”
“All right, but hurry, for goodness’ sake!”
Gabrielle ran after the boy, her cloak flying out behind her. Jane watched them go with a worried frown and a few minutes later heard the wagon rumble through the carriage gate.
“Can’t you go any faster, Will?” Gabrielle asked presently.
He shook his head. “Not through the streets, but we’ll make better time when we hit open country. Just keep your patience, ma’am.”
After what seemed an eternity, she asked, “Are we getting close?”
He glanced warily at her. “Pretty close. Another couple miles, and you’ll be able to see the tops of the oak trees.”
And what would she see beneath them? she wondered unsteadily. A thin ray of sunlight parted the fog, and then another, until the grey shroud had completely disappeared. Now they were in a field of long grass. Off to the right, she could see a copse of oak trees and six or seven figures moving around. Oh, God, she was in time! They hadn’t begun yet.
Will pulled the wagon to the edge of a large oval of hard-packed earth, and Gabrielle jumped down quickly, nearly losing her footing in the still-slippery grass. She found better traction on the oval of earth and ran, lifting her skirts. She could make out the tall, unmistakable figure of Rafe St. Claire and the shorter one of Bernard de Marigny, both standing as though at attention while a man between them was saying something in a low voice. Nearby, a short, stout man with a decided paunch and a large bag appeared to be a physician. Two other men stood close to the duelists, listening to the man in the middle. After he had finished talking, both men looked at each other and shook their heads slowly. Gabrielle was close enough to call out, and she stopped for a moment to catch her breath.
“Rafe, please wait!”
She could see his green eyes, mocking, indifferent, graze her quickly before turning back to Bernard and the other man. He was handing them their swords now, and the stronger rays of the sun glanced off the points of steel as the two men grasped the weapons.
“No! Please wait,” Gabrielle sobbed, feeling tears streaming down her cheeks.
Bernard whispered something to the mediator, and he nodded, then glanced at the sky as though reminding him that the duel must begin soon. Bernard walked to where Gabrielle stood, staring at the scene in disbelief as she struggled to pull herself together. He caught her arm and brushed back the tangled hair that blew about her face.
“Chérie, you should not be here! Get in my carriage immediately and pull the blanket around your shoulders.”
She shook her head. “I’m all right, Bernard, but I must stop this duel at once. I won’t have you both duelling over me. Please, you’ve got to understand, Bernard!”
He shook his head firmly. “I’m sorry, Gabrielle, but my honor is at stake as well as your own, now. I can’t back out.”
She looked at him piteously. “Please, Bernard, if you care for me—don’t do this thing.”
He would not answer her. “I must go back now, my dear.”
She caught at his hand, forcing him to look at her. “Bernard, I—I must tell you—I must ask you. . . . You won’t—Is it over at the first sign of blood?”
He looked at her impatiently now. “Do not ask foolish questions, Gabrielle. This is a matter between men, and they are waiting for me.”
He was going and she must tell him—no matter the cost of her own pride.
“Bernard, listen to me,” she whispered quickly even as he walked away from her. “I am going to have his child, Bernard!”
He stopped as though jerked by invisible strings, then turned and looked back at her in disbelief. “Gabrielle, are you sure? You are carrying his baby?” He was holding her arms now, shaking her a little.
She nodded. “I’m three months pregnant.”
He paled noticeably, and then
she saw the anger flood his face and the steely quality come into the blue eyes. “Why didn’t you tell him, Gabrielle?” She could not look at him then. “You couldn’t tell him because you were afraid to, weren’t you? Afraid he wouldn’t believe the child was his?”
Still she would not look up, and she felt him release her. There was nothing more she could say, and he walked back to where the others were waiting. Her eyes met Rafe’s green gaze and their coldness chilled her to the bone. She could see murder there and something else that she couldn’t quite fathom.
Her heart nearly stopped beating, and she stood there silently, unable to tear her eyes away as the mediator placed the two men some paces apart. They both took off their coats and stocks, handing them to their seconds, then poised themselves for the signal to begin. A pistol shot rang out in Gabrielle’s ears, and she watched as the two men came closer, circling each other warily as the others hurried to get out of their way.
They parried and thrust in slow rhythm that resembled an exercise drill, and she realized that they were both merely getting the feel of their swords, gauging the other’s strength and weakness. Every fiber of her being cried out to these two men, and she felt as though she must run between them and stop this carnage. But of course she could not run to them—all she could do was watch and wait.
The sun was getting higher now—it was going to be another hot day. The clang of steel rang out faster and louder—or was it just her imagination? She heard the wheels of a carriage in the distance, and then another. Two more men with their puffed egos ready to do battle for some imagined slight to their honor, she thought in disgust.
Now, in the clear light, she could see the soaked shirts of both men clinging to their backs. They were well matched—neither would give ground. It would be a duel of stamina, she thought, for surely one of them would slow soon. They both appeared to size each other up, and then a particularly fierce thrust by Bernard was parried by Rafe, and both men were shaken by the force of their clash. They backed off again, circled, and came together and again backed away.
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