Heaven in a Wildflower (5 page)

At last her hair was curled in ringlets even though it smelled vaguely of swamp water despite a generous shower of cologne. She had hastily chosen a plain blue dress but suddenly, on impulse, grabbed up a piece of ribbon and pulled her hair back and tied it at the nape of her neck. Surprisingly, it relieved some of her anxiety as she looked at herself in the mirror and laughed at her fisherman’s coif.

Raymond was in the ladies’ parlor, impatiently pacing about. The coffee and biscuits Calvin had provided sat on a serving cart, untouched.

When Anjele appeared, he rushed to clasp her hands as he devoured her with eager, anxious eyes. “I’m sorry about the early hour, darling,” he apologized hastily. “But after last night, I just had to see you and make sure everything is all right.”

Carefully, she withdrew her hands from his tight, almost painful grasp. She could easily see he was upset and was baffled as to why. “Of course I’m all right. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Claudia said—”

“Claudia!” Anjele echoed with a sigh. “I might have known.” She sat down on the sofa and patted the place next to her, inviting him to join her. She reached for the coffee service. Still tired from last night’s ordeal, she could barely keep from yawning.

“At the party,” he began, sitting down and waving away the offer of coffee for himself, “Claudia said you were being punished for assaulting her and wouldn’t give any of the details. When I asked your mother, she said she didn’t want to talk about it. The next thing I knew, Claudia was asking me to dance with her, and that’s when she said she felt she just had to tell me that the fight was about me.”

“About you?” Anjele stopped pouring cream to stare at him incredulously.

He nodded, misery etched on his face. “She said you were saying unkind things about me, that you find me boring, unattractive, and you wouldn’t even be marrying me if it weren’t for the covenant between our parents. And she said when she tried to take up for me, you got mad and ruined the dress she was planning to wear.”

For an instant Anjele merely closed her eyes and sat there, wondering how to respond. The reality was she did find him boring but had never said so out loud to anyone other than Simona and Emalee. But no girl in her right mind could think him unattractive. With curly hair the color of honey and eyes as blue as periwinkles, he was quite good-looking. But how could she explain the emptiness in her heart when she tried to love him, for the last thing she ever wanted to do was hurt him.

Taking her silence for admission, Raymond cried softly, “I know it was all arranged, even before we were born, Anjele, but I’ll make you love me. I swear I will.”

“You musn’t listen to Claudia,” she hastened to say. She realized he believed the worst. “It wasn’t like she said at all. The argument wasn’t about you. It was the dress, and…” She shook her head and fell silent. What was the point in going into all the details?

“I’m afraid,” she continued delicately, “Claudia sometimes gets things mixed up, but please believe me when I say I’ve never discussed you with her.”

Relief came with a grin. “I should’ve known better, but I was so upset you weren’t there. I wanted to see you, hold you…” His arm snaked out to wrap about her shoulders and draw her closer.

Anjele could smell the whiskey on his breath and knew he had been nipping again from the flask he always carried in his coat pocket. He did that when he was upset about something, a habit she found most disturbing. She moved from his embrace to gingerly remind him, “You know my parents would be very upset to find you here at such an early hour, especially when we aren’t chaperoned.”

He laughed, reaching for her again. “We’re going to be married in a few months, so what difference does it make?”

She set her cup down and quickly stood. “It matters to me,” she hedged. “I don’t want the servants gossiping.”

Raymond thought about how much he wanted, needed, another drink and decided maybe it was best to take his leave. All he had wanted, anyway, was assurance that Claudia was wrong. “Tomorrow,” he said, also getting up, “Mother would like for you to come for lunch so the two of you can discuss how you want our rooms decorated.”

“How nice,” Anjele murmured, unable to display any enthusiasm. The invitation was a formality, because no one ever discussed anything with Ida Duval. They merely listened to what she’d already decided.

“You see,” he went on, when she made no comment on the obvious fact that they would not be moving into his room together after they were married, “Mother says it’s proper for us to have separate bedrooms, so she’s having a parlor put between the two rooms at the end of the east hallway. But don’t worry.” He kissed her forehead. “You’ll sleep in my arms every night.”

Anjele bit back the impulse to ask what business it was of his mother’s, anyway. Dear Lord, she cringed to think of living in the same house with that domineering woman. Oh, not that she was ever unkind. Quite the contrary. Ida carried on as though she adored her and couldn’t do enough for her. There was no problem there. But it was still Ida’s house, and Anjele knew she’d never feel at home there. Besides, she couldn’t stand the way Raymond acted like a little boy around his mother, which, Anjele suspected, was one of the reasons he drank so much.

“You really have to go,” she said emphatically, leading the way to the front door.

He stepped onto the porch but suddenly put his arms around her and swore, “I don’t give a damn who sees us,” then claimed her mouth in a bruising kiss.

She tried to return his fervor but could feel no emotion whatsoever. Even when his tongue parted her lips, and she pretended ardency as she clung to him, there was nothing.

“My darling,” he whispered shakily, forcing himself to end the wondrous moment. “This is torture.”

“Then go.” She mustered a cheery lilt to her voice and waved him on his way.

“I love you,” he called, hurrying down the steps to where a groomsman waited with his horse.

She blew him a kiss but did not, could not, echo his affirmation with one of her own.

“You’re such a hypocrite.” Claudia stepped from behind the potted palm in the foyer, where she had been hiding.

Anjele felt her spine tighten with anger but quickly told herself it wasn’t worth a confrontation. Instead she turned toward the back of the house without responding.

Claudia was right behind her to grab her shoulder and spin her about. “Why don’t you tell him the truth? You don’t love him, and you don’t want to marry him, and the only reason you’re doing it is to hurt me.”

Anjele bit back the fury and jerked free to continue on her way.

“Bitch!”

At that, Anjele turned, throwing her resolve to the wind, but Claudia was already running for the stairs.

Maybe, Anjele mused, living with Ida Duval would be paradise compared to enduring Claudia’s tantrums, which, she knew, were not motivated solely by her feelings for Raymond. Claudia had always coveted anything Anjele had that she didn’t. That sadly included Raymond, who, to her knowledge, had never given Claudia any reason to think he was even remotely interested in her.

She left the house by way of the ballroom, with its mirrored walls and crystal chandeliers. It was on the opposite side of the house from the kitchen and service buildings, so she couldn’t be seen by curious servants. Outside, beyond the marble terrace, were the formal gardens. The men working on her mother’s prized camellias hardly glanced up as she passed.

Walking by the sundial, she saw it was nearly ten o’clock. It was a standing rule that slaves took a fifteen-minute rest period at that time. All she had to do was stand at the edge of the first cotton field and wait for the bell to ring, and when the workers hastened to a shaded area, she ran quickly toward the dense woods.

The path was worn. She knew exactly how far she had walked before taking the clothes from Simona and changing. She had stepped off to the side and could see the grass and weeds there were mashed down. And, heart leaping with relief, she spotted the rock, then reeled with sudden horror to realize her clothes were not behind it.

Someone had already found them.

For a moment, she could only stand there, wondering what to do. No doubt, whoever found them would see right away they were not the garments of a slave. Not to turn them in would be judged the same as stealing, a serious offense at BelleClair, so they’d be taken to one of the house servants, who would then, of course, present them to her mother. Despite the stifling hot day, that chilling thought evoked a shiver from head to toe.

Wanting to prolong the inevitable, as well as attempt to get her thoughts together, Anjele quickly headed to her private spot on the river.

Above a sloping bank, the draping fronds of a large weeping willow tree offered a secluded umbrella where she could hide from the world and still observe it.

She loved to spend time there daydreaming as she watched the opulent pleasure boats, the river packets loaded with cotton, and the flatboats carrying grain. The nights were best, when she would sneak away from the house after dark to sit for hours in hopes of catching a glimpse of the eerie gleam of a torch flaring on a craft moving silently through the dark waters. She could smell gardenias and jasmine from the gardens behind, and it was here she dreamed the romantic fantasies she did not yet understand, while contemplating the puzzling emotional void that was Raymond.

She sat on the lush grass, drew her knees up to her chest, propped her chin on them, and tried to figure out what she was going to tell her mother about those clothes. As much as she hated to lie, admitting the truth was going to wreak havoc, for sure. Maybe she could get by with saying she’d wanted to go for a walk in the swamps so she’d borrowed some clothes from the Cajun girls to keep from ruining her own. She gave her head a vehement shake. That sounded hollow, even to her. No one would believe it, especially her mother, who would imagine the absolute worst.

Suddenly the draping fronds parted, and a shadow fell across her.

Startled, she leaped to her feet to gasp in recognition of Gator. He further surprised her by tossing a bundle at her feet.

Her missing clothes.

“I thought you might be looking for these.”

In mingled astonishment and anger, she asked, “What …what are
you
doing with them? How did you find them?” Then, composure returning, she challenged icily, “And how did you know I was here?”

He laughed softly and easily lowered himself to the ground, leaning back against the tree. Bare chested, he crossed his legs as his heavy-lidded gaze moved slowly over her. She was even better looking than he’d thought. Always seeing her from a distance, he had wondered what color her eyes would be and now saw they were a shade of misty emerald green, with tiny flecks of gold. He could also denote a sparkle of rage, which he found enchanting. “Which question do you want me to answer first?”

She bit back a sarcastic retort. Obviously, he wanted to goad. With exaggerated patience, as though speaking to a child, she said, “First, I would like you to tell me how you found my clothes.”

He hoped he could keep a straight face, for he was enjoying himself. “Simona told me.”

“And why did she tell you?”

“Because I asked her.”

Anjele’s teeth ground together. She would not let him make her lose her temper. “So why did you take them?”

He yawned, feigning boredom. “So I could bring them to you.”

“And how did you know where I was?”

“I was watching, and I followed you.”

Exasperated, she sat down beside him, threw up her hands in defeat. “All right. So get to the point. Why are you here? To rail at me all over again for daring to go into the bayou?”

He truly astonished her then as he looked at her and said quietly, “I was wrong. Simona told me the whole story. I realized you were there because you were invited, so I decided to go get your clothes before somebody else found them, to keep you from getting in trouble.”

Anjele felt her anger washing away like the crumbling riverbanks during spring floods. “And you wanted to apologize,” she said in wonder.

At that, he threw back his head and laughed. “Not hardly. I said I came to say I was wrong. I didn’t say anything about an apology. That would be saying I regret it. And I don’t. I’m glad it happened. Maybe it taught you a lesson.”

Anjele started seething again, all the while helplessly aware of how ruggedly attractive he was. His arms and chest bulged with muscle, and she tried not to look at the dark mat of hair curling down his lean, flat stomach to disappear below the narrow waistband of his trousers. There was a dark arrogance about him, the rugged contours of his jaw etched with stony determination and unquestionable authority. She wondered how old he was but supposed his years at sea made guessing impossible. There were lines at the corners of his eyes from the wind and sun, which had also left him with a deep, bronze tan. He was, to be sure, a fine figure of a man, and she found him surprisingly appealing. This realization was disconcerting in the wake of rekindled fury. “I don’t need you to teach me anything,” she said, tightly. “Who are you, anyway? You aren’t even called by your Christian name, just some silly sobriquet that means nothing.”

“It doesn’t?” His brows shot up in mock surprise. “You mean they don’t call me Gator for any reason at all?”