Gabrielle

by Theresa Conway

  “I’m sure you could, Rafe St. Claire!” she cut in quickly, shaking with anger at his crudeness. “But, then, any woman would do!”

  He glared ruthlessly at her. “Exactly,” he said with a cold finality. Then bowing, he walked away from her.

  Feeling suddenly drained, Gabrielle experienced a sinking sensation as she watched him walk away. Oh, how she hated him when he acted so superior to her—as though a woman couldn’t think as well as a man! Well, she would certainly show him that she could do just as well without him, she thought, and, in a huff, she moved towards the center of the crowd which had begun to part for the dancing.

  Bernard and Anna and the governor and Suzette began the first dance. The music soothed Gabrielle’s high-strung nerves and she found herself gradually relaxing. When the dance was over, she eyed the man to her right rather boldly and hoped that he would ask her to dance.

  “Mrs. St. Claire?” the light-haired man bowed smartly over her fingers.

  “Another American, how charming!” she said lightly, letting her eyes glance at him teasingly.

  “Why, don’t you remember me, ma’am? Leigh Owens. I’m a great friend of your husband’s.” There was amusement on his face now.

  Gabrielle carefully concealed the surprised embarrassment in her reaction and smiled engagingly. “Well, Mr. Owens, are you going to ask me to dance or not?”

  When the music stopped, Bernard claimed her, and she settled back to let him guide her through the next figure.

  “Where is Anna? I don’t see her,” she wondered idly.

  He shrugged, and she could feel the tensing in his arms. “She went upstairs, complaining of a headache—an excuse she seems to rely on more and more lately.”

  “She—she did look a little unwell,” Gabrielle put in quickly, hoping to soothe his injured feelings.

  His smile returned. “Gabrielle, you’re sweet,” he whispered in her ear, taking the opportunity to tickle it with his tongue.

  “Bernard!” She tapped him lightly on the arm. Then more seriously, “You must be terribly excited about your new commission.”

  “If I’m terribly excited at the moment, it isn’t because of that commission,” he put in boldly.

  She couldn’t help laughing.

  “A Creole never gives up,” he admonished, releasing her when the dance was over.

  She looked for Rafe in the crowd and frowned to herself to see him dancing with Melissa Beauville, the two of them seemingly engrossed in their own private conversation. Why must he insist on hurting me, she wondered, knowing how I dislike that woman?

  As the evening wore on, the champagne began to flow more freely, and several of the youngest couples slipped out into the gardens to pay homage to the goddess of love. Gabrielle kept a sharp eye on Rafe, who had gone back to his conversation with the other aides, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Melissa, however, not to be turned away so easily, was hovering near him, her ice-blue eyes intent with purpose.

  It was quite late when Rafe felt her hand slide softly into his. “You promised me another dance, dearest,” she said lightly, pulling him away.

  “’Lissa, where’s your husband?” he asked her, even as he let her bring him out to the dance floor.

  “Oh, Nicholas doesn’t care too awfully much for large gatherings,” she said airily. “I believe he’s in Bernard’s study with the governor and a few others, talking about the war—what else?”

  “If so, then I suppose I ought to be in there with them,” Rafe said musingly.

  She laughed. “Don’t be silly. There must be someone left out here to amuse the ladies.”

  At the end of the dance, she fanned herself energetically, glancing towards the double doors that led into the gardens. “The rain has stopped, darling, and I’m dreadfully hot. Would you mind awfully escorting me?”

  She looked all promise, all invitation. Rafe gazed at her boldly, then let his eyes sweep the room, noting Gabrielle’s absence from the gathering.

  “I believe your wife went upstairs at Bernard’s request to look in on his wife,” Melissa said, following his eyes. “Are you worried she might berate you for strolling through the gardens with me?” she challenged him brazenly.

  The green eyes hardened. “Of course not,” he said and led her through the doors, feeling the warmth of her breast against his arm.

  Gabrielle, coming downstairs from her errand, saw the two of them just as they disappeared into the velvety darkness outside. It took her a moment to recover her composure before she purposefully strode towards where Bernard was lounging against the wall in conversation with Suzette.

  “Anna seems genuinely not feeling well, Bernard,” she said quickly. “I made a cold compress for her and directed one of the servants to press it on her forehead and temples.”

  “You’re an angel,” Bernard said approvingly. “Suzette and I can both agree on that.”

  Suzette laughed. “You know how hard I’ve been trying to get her to join in some of the volunteer work,” she said. “We can use an extra pair of hands, filling the soup bowls and binding up sores for those poor refugees. So many of them pouring in and living in such ghastly conditions—it makes me sick to dwell on it.” She shuddered.

  “I promise to talk to Rafe again,” Gabrielle said quickly.

  Suzette pressed her hand and took her leave as one of her other friends beckoned her toward a small group of ladies.

  “Where’s your husband?” Bernard asked casually.

  She shrugged. “Somewhere about,” Gabrielle responded just as casually.

  They stared at each other for a moment.

  “I saw them, too,” he said finally, and Gabrielle bent her head. “They’ve been out there long enough,” Bernard continued, taking her hand. “I think it’s time you reminded your husband of his obligations.”

  “Oh, no, Bernard, I—”

  “Nonsense. I’ll come with you.”

  He steered her inconspicuously towards the garden doors, and they walked outside, where the air after the storm was once again thick and damp. They passed several couples clasped in varying degrees of embraces, and Gabrielle’s eyes began to search in some alarm.

  “Rafe, Rafe, please don’t stop now, lover. I need you.” The urgent cry brought both of them to a sudden halt, and Gabrielle seemed turned to stone. She and de Marigny were hidden from the unsuspecting trysters by a screen of mulberry bushes, and Gabrielle stepped forward blindly to peer through the leaves. The vivid blue dress had fallen discarded, crumpled in a heap in the grass. A white body lay on the ground, squirming beneath her husband, who was still dressed, his breath ragged after the struggle with Melissa.

  “Goddamn you, you bitch! Get your clothes on before someone comes out and finds us here,” he panted, trying to trap her flying arms. “I don’t fancy a duel with your suitably outraged husband.”

  “You could kill that milksop with a single stroke,” she flung back at him. “You can’t fool me, Rafe St. Claire—you’re worried about that whining whore of a wife of yours!”

  The smack of his hand across her face sounded inordinately loud in Gabrielle’s ears.

  Melissa laughed sarcastically. “She’s got you—you!— wrapped around her little finger,” she spit at him. “Wagging your tail like a dog when she’s near—don’t you think she has her own lovers?”

  “Shut up, Melissa, shut up!”

  Gabrielle saw him fumble with his breeches, and she closed her eyes.

  “Damn you for a bitch, but there’s only one way to shut your filthy mouth!” he snarled.

  “Yes, yes. Oh, yes, Rafe! Harder, harder!”

  The sound of their sweating bodies moving against each other nearly made Gabrielle sick, and she turned away, leaning against Bernard.

  “Gabrielle, let me—” he began in a low voice.

  She shook her head. “Don’t say anything, Bernard. Leave them alone,” she managed as they walked away.

  She felt as though she would faint or just stop breath
ing, anything to wipe out that horribly animal scene. Bernard led her to a secluded bench away from the house and took out his handkerchief to wipe her face.

  “Men are bastards sometimes,” he said quietly.

  Gabrielle was silent, her head resting on his shoulder as she took deep breaths of the sticky air. They sat there, unmoving for a long time, until Bernard made a move to rise. “Come on, my dear, I’d best get you back to the house.”

  She looked up at him and her expression was curiously soft. “Bernard,” she said steadily, “kiss me.”

  Bernard stared at her. He was an old hand at these games, but he didn’t like playing them with this woman. She would only be using him to assuage her anger at what she had just witnessed.

  “Gabrielle, let’s go inside,” he said gently, taking her hand.

  But she slipped away from him and then faced him squarely, her face close to his. Her arms went about his neck, and she brought his lips down to hers, kissing him slowly and thoroughly—the embrace aching in its sensuality. Bernard pressed on her shoulders, aware that this was dangerous ground and that very soon he would not have any control over his actions.

  “A Creole never gives up,” she mocked him, softly. “Show me how the Don Juan of the city misbehaves with a willing woman,” she breathed in his ear, interspersing her words with flicks of her tongue.

  “I’ll not have you using me or shaming yourself like this, Gabrielle,” he said, but the sternness was no longer in his voice, and his arms were drawn around her now, pressing her hard against him so that she could feel the proof of his interest.

  In one fluid movement he was pushing her down to the wet grass, his hands going to her bodice, slipping beneath the gown to cup her breasts, which were hardened with desire. He kissed her again, taking the lead himself now, giving himself up to this woman-flesh that he had so long desired and hungered for.

  She let him lead her breathlessly through a sensual haze, aware of his hands peeling her gown from her shoulders, his mouth enveloping the tips of her breasts, his maleness probing at her thighs. In the back of her mind, she could picture again the white female body and her husband’s above it, kissing, caressing.

  She hated Rafe! She hated him, and she would pay him back twice over for his infidelities!

  The moist air felt heavy on her thighs, and she realized that Bernard was raising her skirt so that it lay crumpled around her middle. His lips and hands on her caused a low moan to escape her throat, and she arched towards him, impatient.

  “Soon, soon,” he murmured, his face close to hers now, his mouth taking her lips with practiced artistry.

  Sudden, raucous laughter close by nearly caused her to jump up in alarm, her mood effectively shattered. Both she and Bernard heard the crunch of boots on the gravel and watched through the enveloping leaves as a man and woman walked by—Dussault and some lady friend, chattering merrily about some inane experience.

  When they had passed, Gabrielle looked at Bernard, stricken at what she had allowed to happen. “Oh, Bernard,” she sobbed suddenly, “I’m so—so ashamed!” Bernard, struggling against his sexual urge, took a few moments to gain control of himself, then stood up, settling his clothes into some order. “Nothing happened, Gabrielle, nothing,” he reminded her.

  “But I forced you—I—we almost—oh, my God!”

  He laughed harshly. “You didn’t force me into anything, my love. It will be my eternal regret that that fool, Dussault, happened by when he did, and that he is the owner of such a penetrating laugh.” He wiped his sopping brow and reached down to pull her skirt over her legs. “A sight too lovely to bear,” he said jerkily, helping her rise and straighten her gown.

  Gabrielle was nearly incoherent by this time, and Bernard looked around helplessly, unsure of how to deal with this woman’s tears. “I’ll find Suzette,” he said, patting her hand awkwardly and hurrying out.

  Gabrielle sat down on the bench sobbing heartily until Suzette rushed up with Bernard close on her heels.

  “Here she is, Suzette. You—you must do something!” Suzette strove to keep the laughter from her voice. “Gabrielle, are you crying because you have been left unassuaged, chérie?” she questioned. “For Bernard has already told me that the—um—culmination did not transpire. Come now, pull yourself together. Goodness, if every woman did this after a flirtation, we’d have all the women in the city going around nervous wrecks!” She proffered her handkerchief, and Gabrielle wiped her face gratefully.

  Bernard exited gracefully, and Suzette put her arm around Gabrielle. “Come. I’ll take you upstairs through the kitchens, and we’ll see what we can do about pressing your gown.”

  “Oh, you don’t understand, Suzette! Rafe—I saw him—”

  “Hush, my dear. There’s no need to relate your personal matters to me.”

  They entered the house and hurried upstairs, where Gabrielle undressed and Suzette called for a servant to press the wetness from the gown.

  “I can’t believe I would do such a thing,” Gabrielle murmured.

  “You’d been hurt,” Suzette interjected. “A woman whose feelings have been wounded as yours had knows no case of mind until she has paid back the debt in full.”

  It was several minutes before the servant returned with the gown, fairly crisped and almost completely dry. Gabrielle donned it quickly, checked her hair, and wiped her face, drying her eyes before the two women prepared to return downstairs.

  At the landing, they could see a knot of people, Claiborne and Bernard among them, questioning a stranger who, by the look of him, had ridden furiously from far away. Cries, frenzied questions, and loud voices had turned the ballroom into a hubbub of noise.

  Suzette, with Gabrielle in tow, made her way to her husband’s side. “What—what has happened?” she asked fearfully.

  William Claiborne looked pale and terribly concerned. “My God, Suzy, the bastards have fired the Capitol! Washington City is destroyed—President Madison fled just in time! God help us now.”

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Gabrielle wiped her brow and stretched the muscles in her back, then glared up at the sun that remained so pitiless in the cloudless sky, shining down with an intense heat that was enough to drive anyone to the closest stream.

  Her eyes returned to the ground and jumped from one anxious face to another, all those faces turned towards her and the few other women volunteers, seeking comfort from them when they were nearly too tired to give it.

  In the week that she had been helping Suzette’s small task force in their volunteer work, she had come to know some of the women refugees, watched their tight faces sorrowing over a sick child, crooning to a husband depressed by an endless day of seeking work or lodging.

  The day after Bernard’s ill-fated ball, she had informed Suzette that she would be glad to do whatever she could. She had not told Rafe until the following day when he questioned her where she was going. His face had nearly exploded in rage.

  “I told you—I don’t want you down there with that filth and disease. Do you care so little for your son?” he demanded angrily.

  She flushed for a moment, then jerked her chin up in determination. “I’ll be careful,” was all she said, and she hurried out to the waiting carriage, leaving Rafe to nurse his anger alone.

  But he hadn’t too much time to do so, for it wasn’t long before British vessels appeared in the Gulf of Mexico, boldly parading the waters, like stalking tigers waiting for the right moment to spring on their prey. The naval threat had the whole city in an uproar, and Claiborne was hard put to keep order in the streets. An armed guard followed the women volunteers now, for many people would not hesitate to rob them of the food and clothing they carried with them.

  Gabrielle gazed, exhausted, at the nearly empty basket of produce she carried on one arm. A few more oranges and celery stalks remained, and she signalled the men to follow her down the road to where a tiny village of hovels had sprung up in the months since the refugees began arriving. She
stopped first at the shanty of a woman she had come to know.

  “Hello, Celeste. How are the children today?”

  “They complain always of the heat,” she laughed, “as though they had never before felt the sun on their backs. I tell them to go fishing for their dinner and take a swim.” She selected a piece of the celery, her fingers pressing knowingly for the tenderest stalk. “This will be good in the soup, no?”

  Gabrielle agreed. As she was about to leave, the woman caught her sleeve. “We have some new arrivals,” she said. “A highborn lady by the look of her. Poor thing, she was too proud to accept my invitation to dinner, and her looking as though she’s about to drop that baby in her belly pretty soon. I fairly begged her to have just a little, but she smiled and said that she was sure her husband would find something for them to eat.” The woman sniffed disdainfully. “That one she calls her husband—I saw him this morning, daydreaming in the grass while she tried to collect firewood. If he were my husband, I would kick his backside and tell him to do the work!”

  “Where is she?” Gabrielle asked, steeling herself not to flinch from the duty that was more painful to her than any other. Talking to ladies of the aristocracy depressed her almost unbearably, for inevitably they would talk about their days of pomp and riches, going back over and over to remind her that they were titled folk and couldn’t understand why they were treated in such slovenly fashion in America.

  Wearily, she walked down the road in the direction Celeste had pointed out, to where she could make out a lean-to propped up against a young sapling. A woman crouched over a fire, blowing softly on it. There was no sign of a man anywhere.

  “Good afternoon, madame,” she said in the cheeriest voice she could muster.

  The woman did not look up, obviously thinking the greeting was for someone else, and Gabrielle moved closer, noting the dullness of dark hair that had once been soft and shining. Even seen in her crouched position, the woman was clearly far along in her pregnancy, possibly eight months or even more.