Bride of a Stranger (Classic Gothics Collection) (5 page)

“Yes, of course! It couldn’t be anything else.” What was the matter with her aunt? Surely she didn’t believe in this voodoo cult so favored by their African slaves and the free men and women of color in New Orleans?

“I knew a woman once, a French woman, whose husband took a mistress. She went to a voodoo queen called Sanitè Dèdè who made a
gris-gris
for her to use to keep her husband at home. She carried the woman one of her husband’s gloves and Sanitè Dèdè filled it with—oh, I don’t know, dust, and bits of bone and sugar. She also gave her powders in paper twists to put in his food. But as impossible as it may seem, the voodoo worked.”

“But—”

“Don’t scoff, girl. There are strange things that have happened. I could tell you things that you, as a protected
jeune fille
, have never heard of. These people who have been given into our care, the slaves, have ancient ways we cannot understand. I have known maids who went demented, men who had died for no known reason except for the sprinkling of a little dust, the burning of a few candles of a different hue. I don’t suppose you will heed me, but what the quadroon has done once can be done again.”

Claire felt a pang of disquiet. To have her usually stolid aunt upset by the voodoo
gris-gris
gave it more importance.

“Fetch me a towel,” her aunt told Zaza, and when it was brought she picked up the wax conjure ball with it to protect her fingers, then laid the doll on its folds. “I will throw these things in the fire in the kitchen and say a Hail Mary for your safety, as insurance. Try not to think of it. Get some rest, if you can. You have a long evening before you.”

But Claire did not try to rest. It would have been impossible. If her thoughts had allowed it, her pounding head and the turmoil in her mind would not. She bathed slowly in the copper tub filled with warm, scented water, and then, though she felt ill with nerves, she let Zaza slip the low-necked chemise over her head, then the underdress of white silk. Finally, the wedding gown itself was settled carefully into place and the ribbon draw-tapes pulled tightly about her rib cage, just under the bust, and tied in the back. Kneeling before her, Zaza rolled gossamer silk stockings up her legs and fastened them above the knee with rose embroidered garters, then placed the white silk slippers on her feet. For jewelry, she wore nothing but the groom’s gift of pearl teardrops.

When she had repaired the slight disorder of Claire’s coiffure, touched her face with rice paper squares to remove the sheen and whisked red rose petals across her cheekbones, she stepped back and clasped her hands together.

“Ravishing, mam’zelle. Utterly ravishing. If that one, that Belle-Marie, could see you now she would dry up and fly away with the envy!”

Claire stared at herself in the mirror, hoping the glitter in her eyes might be mistaken for sparkle. Then she smiled at the maid. “You deserve the credit, Zaza. You are a genius. I wish I could take you with me, it would be so much more comfortable having someone I know and could talk to near me. But my—fiancé says that he does not wish my uncle to provide me with a maid, he prefers to do so himself.”

“Yes, I understand, mam’zelle. You must bow to the wishes of the man you marry, it is expected. But I, too, will miss you.” She smiled impishly. “There is no pleasure in dressing madame, your aunt, only a vast challenge!”

Claire could not help laughing, but that small lift of the spirits did not last beyond the door of her room.

The rain had stopped, but the sky was still over- cast, making it seem later than just dusk when she entered the first of a long line of carriages waiting outside the door. The others contained the many relatives of her aunt’s family, who must, of course, as her relatives-by-marriage, join the procession. With her rode only her aunt and uncle. It was but a few blocks to the cathedral, but it took some time for the dozen or more carriages to pull up before that building, with its two rounded towers, and more time for their occupants to step down. While they were waiting, Justin joined them, standing on the banquette, or sidewalk, talking to her uncle through the carriage window. He was dressed with an elegant simplicity in a gray cut-away coat, white silk cravat, a white and gray-striped waistcoat, and white doeskin pantaloons over black evening shoes. The light from the lantern hanging under the portico of the cathedral played over his strong features, leaving his scar mercifully in shadow. From the dim interior of the carriage, Claire had murmured a greeting, then clenched her hands together in her lap, wishing that this ordeal was over, that the next twenty-four hours, or even the next week, could magically pass.

At last they were all gathered. Her uncle handed her down and led her toward the heavy double doors of the cathedral. As they drew near, the regular detail of Swiss Guards in their blue, red, and yellow uniforms came to meet them, to lead them in a slow, majestic march up the aisle. Behind Claire came Justin with her aunt on his arm, and following them was the best man, a friend of Justin’s whom Claire had never met before and doubted that she would again. He was escorting a spinster sister of her aunt. After them came Jean-Claude with his grandmother, followed by all the other relatives—cousins, great-aunts, and great-uncles. The procession should have included Justin’s relatives also, most particularly his mother and father, but they were unable to attend the wedding, or so he had claimed.

There was a moment of confusion while everyone with the exception of Claire, Justin, and the best man was seated; then with her hand upon his gloved wrist, Justin led Claire toward the altar where the robed priest awaited them. She slipped the ribbon of her bridal fan, with her bouquet attached, over her left wrist, and she and Justin knelt.

The Church did not permit the celebration of Mass after noon, and so the ceremony was brief. The sonorous words rolled over her head, the ring was slipped onto her trembling finger, and in a few short moments she found herself with a quill in her hand signing the cathedral register, with Justin at her side and all the relatives who had accompanied them waiting behind her to sign also.

It was dark when they passed through the great double doors again. A curious crowd had gathered and a ragged cheer went up as they appeared. Beside her, Justin lifted his hand in acknowledgment, then he checked himself, exclaiming impatiently under his breath.

Following the direction of his gaze, Claire saw a small curricle pulled up near the corner of Chartres Street. In the light of a street lamp slung diagonally across the street on a rope she could see that the carriage was painted a brilliant yellow with orange trim. In it was a woman, for the flash of jewels caught the light of the oil lantern. The thong of a carriage whip was a sudden blur in the air, then the matched pair of cream horses surged forward. The curricle swung wide to turn toward the levee, then disappeared, hidden by branches of the sycamore trees that grew in double file in the Place D’Armes fronting the cathedral.

Belle-Marie. Justin’s mistress had come to see him wed. Claire felt a faint stir of anger. Such effrontery. The woman must know that her carriage was unmistakable. Did she hope to spoil their wedding day by showing herself, hoping to be a painful reminder of a secret part of Justin’s past life? If that was her motive, then she was wasting her venom, Claire thought. Nothing could possibly make this day more grim than it was already. Or perhaps her presence was aimed at Justin alone; a reminder of what he was throwing away?

She glanced up at Justin, but his face was a mask, devoid of expression.

People began to press around them as the others left the church. As if only at that moment aware that he was standing still, he looked at her, then led her swiftly toward the carriage, handed her in, and climbed in beside her.

There were more than a hundred guests at the reception to partake of the champagne and the lavish supper arranged by Madame de Hauterive. No one was going to be able to say that she had stinted on the wedding of her husband’s ward and niece. The large salon, and also the small one reserved usually for the family, had been thrown together. Tables had been set up along one wall to hold the food, and the guests milled around them exclaiming at the bounty, the
bouillabaisse
and
court bouillon
, the
daube glacé
, the
vol-au-vents
filled with snipes tongues, and the sweets, the
tartes aux
pêches, the wine and jelly cake, the bride’s cake, of course, and the
pièce monteé
—centerpiece—of nougat molded in the shape of the cathedral.

Claire and Justin, after being presented formally, mingled with the guests, ate a little of the supper spread out around them, then with Justin standing impatient at her side, Claire cut her cake and parceled it out among the unmarried girls who promptly wrapped it in a napkin. Each one would sleep with it under her pillow and hope to dream of her future husband.

With that last ceremonious act, Claire slipped away, and with Zaza’s aid, changed into a carriage dress of rose cambric with a narrow skirt that would not crush easily. Draping an India shawl over her arms, she waited while Zaza packed her wedding gown and accessories into a dress box. As she stood there, her gaze went to the bed and she reflected that if she had married anyone other than Justin she would now be dressed in her nightgown and negligee with her hair brushed about her shoulders, sitting up in that bed awaiting her husband. With that thought in mind it did not seem such a terrible thing to be starting out on an all-night journey, even if her destination was a strange house called Sans Songe, a house without illusions.

ZAZA HANDED THE dress box to the liveried coachman, bade Claire a good journey, wished her happiness, then hurried back into the house hiding her tears. The driver stowed the box away in the covered luggage rack of the traveling coach, a diligence built for speed. In the light of the coach lanterns, Claire could see a groom, also in livery, at the heads of the four black horses before the coach to hold them, for they were nervous from being kept standing. At the rear of the coach a saddle horse was tied, and she supposed him to be a favorite mount Justin was taking with him into the country.

She turned back to embrace her uncle and aunt standing in the doorway to see the couple off, and bid them farewell. And she pressed her bridal bouquet into her aunt’s hand, asking her one last favor: to send it to her convent school, as was the custom. Then swallowing on the constriction of tears that had suddenly arisen in her throat, she turned toward the man waiting for her, his tall form indistinct in the darkness.

“Come,” he said, holding out his hand, and there was nothing she could do but obey.

The carriage bowled along the muddy streets at a fast pace, quickly leaving the city behind. As they passed the last of the straggling shotgun houses beyond Rampart Street heading west, they heard the nine o’clock curfew gun in Congo Square boom out. For a few miles, several horsemen, members of the wedding party, followed them singing and shouting, but they soon fell back.

They traveled through the night silence, and as they rode hour upon hour without speaking, some of the tension began to leave her. It was a dark night. Clouds hid the moon, and the side lanterns threw only the faintest glimmer of light inside the coach. She could see the white sheen of Justin’s cravat and pantaloons, his outline against the window, but he was so still and seemingly lost in thought that after a time her painful awareness of his presence beside her began to fade.

Claire leaned back in her corner of the diligence. The upholstery was soft velvet, dark blue, like the body of the coach, and luxuriously padded. She rested her head against the squabs, conscious of how weary she was, and of the dull ache that still lived in her head despite the champagne she had drunk. She stripped off her gloves and put her fingers to her eyes, then heedless of the damage to her coiffure she began to remove the heavy crown of orange blossoms that she still wore. There was a slight rustle beside her and something warm touched her hands. She flinched away.

“Allow me to help you.” Justin’s voice was warm and low, close to her ear.

“N-no, I can manage,” Claire said, drawing away from him and tearing the flowers from her hair in her haste.

“Take your hair down also, if you like. It will be a long night, and you might as well be comfortable. There is still quite a distance ahead of us.”

“Thank you, no.”

“Why not? You should not mind that I will see you. You are, after all, my wife.”

It was as if, feeling her draw away from his touch a few seconds before, he had deliberately chosen to remind her of her position.

“I am not likely to forget it,” she flared. “But I do not wish to arrive at your home with my hair down around my waist.”

“It will be nearly the break of day before we arrive at Sans Songe, and I can assure you that it is not in the least likely that anyone will be up to see you. That is a long time to be uncomfortable, but you could put it back up again if being untidy bothers you.”

“Not,” she said distinctly, “without my personal maid.”

“That rankles? I regret that you are disturbed, but I found myself unable to bear the thought of accepting your uncle and aunt’s reluctant charity when there are more than enough women at Sans Songe to attend to your needs. But for the moment you will have to accept my services—as distasteful as they may be.”

Without waiting for her assent he began to remove the pins from her hair and toss them into her lap. To avoid prolonging the moment of intimacy longer than need be, Claire helped him. The chignon started to slip, then the heavy coil slid down her shoulder to lie upon her breast like a length of ancient gold satin, shimmering with the movement of the carriage. Claire sighed and closed her eyes, then as she felt a light touch, opened them wide again.

Justin had picked up a strand of her hair. He was playing with it, watching the soft curl cling to his fingers. “You were very beautiful this evening. Regal, that is the word that came to me.”

“Th-thank you,” Claire acknowledged the compliment, her heart beating unevenly as she sensed, the gathering purpose behind the calm demeanor. She avoided his eyes, staring out the window, watching the trees that lined the road, black slashes against the gray-black night, whirling past.

“I was proud of you, of the way you looked, the manner in which you held your head high. You have courage. It is an attribute I admire above all others. We have not started out well together, you and I, but perhaps now that we are man and wife it will be possible to begin anew, to shape the eternity that stretches before us to suit ourselves. Have you the courage for that?”

She could not answer. She felt cornered, harassed beyond endurance, and she was not helped by the clamor of the emotional side of her nature, that part of her that had responded to him twice before. She found herself twisting the rings on her finger, the betrothal ring and the ring of alliance that had been placed upon it in the cathedral—the interlocking double ring engraved with the date, her initials, and those of Justin, her husband.

His fingers touched her chin and turned her face toward him. His eyes were hidden in the darkness above her, and yet she could feel their magnetism. Alarm surged through her and she closed her eyes to blot out the sight of him.

“Can you find it within yourself to forget what has gone before and begin again, here? Now?” His voice was husky, and then his lips trailed flame across her eyelids, down her cheeks to the corner of her mouth. His fingers were warm and vibrant as they moved down her neck and beneath her hair, tilting her mouth to receive the growing passion of his kiss.

“No!”

She twisted her head away, striking out, trying to break free of the paralyzing gentleness of his embrace. Her hand caught the side of his face in a sharp blow, and then her wrists were caught in a bruising grip and jerked down.

“No,” she said again fiercely, though she lowered her voice for fear the coachman and the groom on the box above them would hear. That single syllable was both an answer to his question and a denial of his caresses.

“Think carefully before you decide,” he grated. “I won’t ask you again.” But she was too incensed to listen to the warning.

“How can I make a pact with you, a man who threatened to murder my cousin if I did not obey your wishes? What kind of man are you to expect me to fall in with your—your—”

“Amorous inclinations?”

“—your plans, and meekly agree to make you a comfortable and accommodating wife?” Her voice shook with the strain of putting her resentment into words and also her fear of what he would do to her, but she was determined.

“I agreed to marry you, and I have done so, but I agreed to nothing else. Nothing!”

“You surprise me,” he murmured, and she could hear the amusement in his voice. “Why else do you suppose I married you?”

“For—for revenge. You could not bear to let me go unpunished for daring to pity you for having a, mutilated face!” She regretted the words as soon as they were out, but there was no calling them back.

His fingers bit into her wrist so that she had to clench her fingers against the sudden pain, but his voice was as smooth as before. “Oh, yes, I had almost forgotten. But long moments before I heard you say those fatal words I had seen you, and wanted you. I saw your hair,
ma petite blonde
, like honeyed silk, and I wanted to bury my fingers in it; the depths of your eyes, such a clear, pure, brown fascinated me, and your skin so white with a hint of wild rose beneath the surface, so different from the sallow crones around you; I wanted to press my lips to it—like this.”

His words ended in a whisper as his warm mouth found the pulse beating frantically in her throat. He forced her back against the cushions, and though she fought him, her efforts were feeble against his greater strength. She was crushed beneath him, unable to move as his lips traced the line of her temple, the curve of her cheek, brushed the fine curls before her ears, and then closed over her mouth, molding it to his hard demand. Her senses blurred, her rage receded, her futile struggles grew weaker until she lay passive in his arms.

At last he raised his head, but it was a moment before she could speak. “I should have known you could not be depended upon to act the gentleman.”

“So you should, considering the circumstances,” he countered grimly. “But what does playing the gentleman have to do with what is between a man and a woman—especially when that woman is his wife?”

“And now—now you have proven that you can force me to your will, that you care nothing for my feelings. I wish you pleasure then of your reluctant bride.” Her voice was hard with the promise that, so far as it was in her power, he would gain nothing.

“Thank you,
ma coeur
,” he mocked her. “I have always cared more for what I must take than what is too easily given.”

Once again his lips descended. It was several minutes before he released her with a low, satisfied laugh. Reaching above them to a sliding panel set into the front of the coach, he pushed it back and gave the order to stop. As the brakes were applied and they ground to a jolting halt, Justin picked up her hand and put it to his lips.

“I am sure you will be desolate,” he said with a touch of gaiety, “but I feel it will be best if I ride the rest of the way. You are much too tempting. I suggest that you try to sleep, while you can.”

Catching up his caped great-coat and hat, a
chapeau bras
, that were lying on the opposite seat, he stepped down from the coach. The groom brought his horse forward and he mounted with the smooth ease of one who spends long hours in the saddle. He pulled on a pair of gloves that he took from his coat pocket, quieting his restive mount with a few soft words, then he touched the brim of this hat to Claire, and with a sardonic smile rode away.

Claire pulled her India shawl around her, wrapping the folds more closely for comfort. She was suddenly chilled, and though she was glad to be relieved of Justin’s presence, still she had a contrary feeling of being deserted.

While they were stopped, they tarried long enough to rest the horses, then the journey resumed. The coach rocked on through the night, the country grew wilder, the road rougher, and the settlements where all the houses were dark and only the dogs awoke to speed their passing were farther and farther apart. At one lonely plantation they stopped and roused the stable to effect a change of horses. Claire was given a hot drink and was able to stretch her legs before they went on. It was with a certain amount of satisfaction that she felt herself growing sleepy; it seemed to prove how little disturbed she was by her long, emotion-torn day. Slipping off her shoes, she put her feet up on the velvet softness and closed her eyes.

The rumble of thunder woke her. Lightning forked the sky and a wet wind filled with rain struck the coach. Claire shivered and felt a stir of pity for the driver and groom riding up on top. She hoped that they had brought oilskins with them. And where was Justin? His great-coat would hold the rain off for a time, but he would eventually be soaked. Hard on that thought came the fear that he might ride back to join her inside the coach, and hurriedly she pushed her feet into her shoes. Then, gathering her hairpins from the floor and the seat, she smoothed her hair and coiled it in a flat knot on top of her head.

Straightening in her seat, she looked out the window. On one side was the forest, thick, dark and impenetrable, but on the other was a fairly large bayou, its current swollen with the spring rains. It must be near daylight, she realized, for although it was raining she could still see the water running swiftly along and also the thick, green grass studded with wild flowers at the edge of the roadside.