Moon Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy) (17 page)

      
He took her in his arms and stroked her much like a father calming a child. She was the same age as he, but since their son had died two years ago in a yellow fever epidemic, Lily had changed. She had never been happy that her first child was a female. When Francois was born, she was overjoyed. Melanie was a precious, beautiful little girl, but for the most part it had been Lily's maid Morine who had cared for her.

      
After Melanie’s brother had died and she had survived the decimating epidemic of 1833, Lily couldn't bear to look at Melanie. She had insisted on sending her to live in St. Louis where the child's grandmother and aunt had moved. Unwilling to keep Melanie in a household where she was not loved, and unable to find any other place for her, Rafael had finally agreed. She was almost six now, a proper young lady with bright golden eyes and jet black hair, her Spanish, French, Cherokee and African heritage beautifully blended together. He had her aunt Therese bring her downriver for visits several times a year, but other than that he did not see her, only paid for her support and education.

      
“Don't cry, Lily.” He sighed. “I won't tell you to stop taking your potions.”

      
At once, she brightened and stopped her heartrending sobbing. “Thank you, beloved. I am so grateful you understand.”

      
“I don't keep you here to provide me with offspring, but with divertissement, little cat,” he replied with a lopsided smile.
Anyway, soon I'll have legitimate heirs with Deborah.
The thought came unbidden, but he did not want to consider it. Angry at himself as well as at his neurotic mistress, he reached over and scooped her off the sofa in one rough, abrupt movement. He carried her into the bedroom and tossed her onto the bed.

      
He quickly stripped away his robe, then knelt on the edge of the mattress. Lily pulled him down and wrapped her small voluptuous body around his. They caressed with languorous practice, knowing one another's most sensitive secret places. Finally, he rolled her on top of him and impaled her wet eager flesh on his phallus. When she could feel him beginning to swell and explode, she arched her back and made one last gyrating descent, collapsing on his chest, feeling her own deep radiating waves of climax joining his. They panted in the warm dark night for several minutes, then fell asleep, still locked together. It was always good with Lily.

      
When he first came to her she had been but a sixteen-year-old virgin, he a sixteen-year-old boy. However, despite his lusty romps with a variety of experienced lower-class girls, he had been the innocent. Lily had been explicitly instructed from childhood in all the ways of pleasing a man. She could excite and tantalize like the most experienced courtesan. She had been taught by her own mother and aunt, both
placées
themselves in their youths. For a beautiful Free Woman of Color, it was by far the most practical way to assure her future.

      
Rafael had been Lily's first lover. Together, they quickly learned how to give one another exquisite pleasure. Six years later, Rafael still enjoyed the relationship. It had never occurred to him to end it when he married. Now, threatened by his feelings for Deborah, he was more determined than ever to keep Lily as a counterbalance against the disturbing influence of his wife.

      
Early the next morning Lily rose and instructed the kitchen maid about breakfast, then bathed, made her toilette, and had a hot bath brought for Rafael. By the time he was finished, she carried a breakfast tray in and they ate together in bed.

      
“I really must get home, Lily. It's nearly noon,” he said, wiping his mouth and tossing a snowy linen napkin onto the tray.

      
“Morine is going to the market for some fresh crayfish, Rafael. Perhaps while there she'll see Wilma with your wife.” She casually picked up a delicate china cup and took a sip of the thick cafe noir, waiting to gauge his reaction.

      
“Deborah shops with the servants on occasion. It occupies her time,” he replied casually as he slipped on his freshly pressed jacket.

      
“It seems odd for a lady to muck through the public markets with black slaves, but then I suppose Yankees are different from Creole women.” She could see he was growing angry. Unable to stop herself, Lily catapulted into his arms. “Oh, Rafael, she'll never please you! She could never do what I did last night.” Her busy little hands insinuated themselves inside his jacket as she pressed her lower body closely to his.

      
He reached down and unwound her arms, pushing her away as he held her wrists. “I told you last night, I don't discuss one of my women with the other.
Ever
. You have your place in my life, Lily. Be satisfied with that.” His black eyes were hard as obsidian.

      
Lowering her head, she murmured, “
Oui,
Cheri,
” but her thick lashes veiled the wounded fury in her eyes.

* * * *

      
Feeling strangely disturbed, Deborah awoke. The bedroom was cold and lonely despite the warmth of May. Deborah had become used to lying by Rafael's side and feeling the beat of his heart when he held her in sleep. With a sick sense of dread she arose and rang for Tonette. Knowing what she knew about all the diversions of Creole men, it was just as likely he had spent the night betting on a cockfight or playing cards as sleeping with another woman. The thought of her husband lying in some whore's cheap, soiled bed made her ill. Forcing the sickening thought aside, she resolved to face the day.

      
She knew Wilma was going to the public market that morning to buy fresh shellfish and produce. Deborah loved the noise and international flavor of the city's shopping center. Indeed, when Wilma found the new mistress could speak halting German and even some Spanish, the old cook was delighted. Deborah could bargain with those merchants far more effectively than could she, whose French was barely intelligible and who could speak not a word of any other language but English.

      
Wending her way through the crowds in the fierce noonday heat, Deborah watched the kaleidoscope of the market. Free Women of Color with huge baskets balanced on their turbaned heads walked regally past, selling rice cakes. A swarthy Spaniard hawked salt fish. As she wiped a trickle of perspiration from her temple, Deborah wondered why Celine had looked so pleased when her errant daughter-in-law departed that morning.

      
Usually, Madame made deprecating remarks when Deborah accompanied Wilma. But today, Celine had been uncharacteristically gracious, asking Deborah to select the oysters for tonight's dinner. Willing to make any reasonable attempt to placate her in-laws, Deborah had agreed, although after she had dug through the seaweed-coated, odoriferous oyster barrels, she felt as smelly and slimy as the unwashed shellfish. Oh to get home and sink into a tub of fresh cool water!

      
Wilma was barking her usual fierce orders to Guy about taking care in loading the fresh fruit and vegetables onto the wagon when Deborah approached them. Just then she caught sight of a carriage turning onto Dumaìne Street. Inside sat Caleb Armstrong and Lenore! It was a closed carriage and Deborah recognized her sister-in-law only because of the hat and heavy veil she'd seen her wearing when she had left the house that morning. Small wonder she wished to disguise herself! She was trysting with the Yankee banker! She felt a surge of increasing anger at the injustice of it all. Claude and Rafael were able to come and go, do anything immoral or scandalous with no one thinking less of them, while a good young woman like Lenore, who only wanted to have a normal courtship with a fine young man, would be castigated and condemned.

      
Damn Rafael, where was he? She vowed to confront him when he returned and also to try to counsel her sister-in-law. It was too dangerous to be seen so openly with her Yankee. If she recognized Lenore, so might other less sympathetic people. Perspiring and fuming, she climbed aboard the wagon with Wilma and sat back. She tried to fan herself with her skirts. Would she ever get used to the heat and humidity of New Orleans? It was only May!

      
When they returned home, Deborah helped Wilma unload and arrange the foodstuffs in the kitchen, then trudged across the courtyard, intent on reaching her quarters where Tonette could draw her a bath. Over the musical tinkle of the central courtyard fountain, she heard the murmur of female voices. Not wanting to be seen, she decided to slip quietly up the back stairs. However, she had not reckoned on her mother-in-law's watchful eyes.

      
“Oh, Deborah, there you are, just in time for luncheon.” Celine's greeting was oversweet and bubbling. “Do come down and join me.”

      
Observing her daughter-in-law's perspiration-drenched clothes and stringy, half-fallen knot of damp hair, she smiled archly. Yes, she even smelled of oyster barrels. Perfect! She walked quickly to the stairs and took Deborah's hand, drawing her around the shield of the fountain and shrubbery to where Minnette Gautier sat in dainty cool perfection beneath the canopy of an ornamental fig tree. Next to her sat her mother, her aunt, and several other of Celine's friends, all dressed and coiffed immaculately. Minnette’s eyes widened in delight as she compared her crisp yellow gown to Deborah's limp, seaweed soaked rag. Why, she looked a positive fright!

      
“Oh, my, you seem to have been caught in the sun without a parasol,” she cooed viciously. Her aunt simply gaped and several of the other women whispered behind their fans.

      
Deborah was rooted to the ground in horror, stunned at her mother-in-law's cunning.
I'll grind up those oysters, shells and all, and put them in her facial cream!
Composing herself, she ignored the simpering Minnette and tittering matrons. Instead she concentrated on the formidable Celine.

      
“You planned this flawlessly, Mother Celine,” she said evenly. “I must compliment you. Too bad Rafael isn't here to witness my public humiliation, but I'm certain Miss Gautier will have described my discomfort to half of New Orleans by nightfall—right down to the stench of seaweed,” she added, noting the way Minnette's dainty nose wrinkled. The little Creole swished her skirt carefully away from Deborah's and gasped in outrage at the insult.

      
“Minnette doesn't need to tell me, Deborah. I'm here to see for myself.” Rafael's tone was as deadly as his murderous facial expression. He strode swiftly across the courtyard from the stairs he had just descended. His eyes swept disgustedly from her stringy hair down to her filthy sweat-soaked skirts, then back up to her face, glistening with perspiration and smudged with dirt. Glaring at her, he said, “If you ladies will excuse us, my wife and I have things to discuss upstairs.”

      
Too shocked to protest more, Deborah watched him bow and kiss Minnette's fingers, nod tersely to Celine and the rest of the entourage, and then take her elbow in a bone-crushing grip, ushering her toward the stairs to their quarters. He did not speak until they were in their apartment. “If you ever again appear before my mother's friends in this condition, I swear I'll take you to the plantation upriver and lock you away for a year!”

      
“I didn't appear before them—I was entrapped. She asked me to select oysters at the market and then sent off those invitations deliberately—even dragged me into the courtyard to confront her guests!” What had begun in anger ended in sorrow. She was just too humiliated to be angry. “Your mother despises me, Rafael.” Her eyes made an unspoken plea for his support.

      
“Small wonder if she didn't! You've done nothing but give her embarrassment and aggravation. If you stayed home and dressed as a lady instead of traipsing around with the servants, this whole thing would never have happened,” he snapped. Damn, he was mightily fed up with women—Lily, Celine, and Deborah!

      
“I suppose if I were picture-perfect like Minnette you'd be pleased with me?” She hadn't meant it to sound so jealous.

      
He threw up his hands in a Gallic gesture of disgust, then paced furiously over to the cabinet where crystal glasses and cool water were kept. “Devil take that prissy little flirt. Mother favored her, I certainly never did. Forget Minnette Gautier and think of me. You're my wife and you have certain duties and obligations to me. You—”

      
“Yes, and what about your duties and obligations to me, husband!” she interrupted him acidly, stung beyond words that he would always side with his parents against her. “You were gone all night without even the courtesy of a note to explain where you'd be. Since you always place the worst construction on my actions, maybe I should do the same with yours.” She held her breath, horrified at what anger had goaded her into blurting out, but even more afraid of what he might confess.

      
He poured a glass of water and took a drink, his back to her. Then he turned and smiled, but the warmth of his lips never reached the chilly depths of his eyes. “Perhaps if I had a sweet-smelling, beautifully dressed wife to come home to, I might be more tempted.”

      
Deborah fought down the urge to start ripping books from the shelves behind her and hurling them at the scoundrel. She had bathed and dressed in lace and silk for him, waiting all night in their bed alone, but she would never give him the satisfaction of knowing that now. Wordlessly, she turned and walked toward the bedroom.

Chapter Ten

      
For the next three days, the Flamenco household was in chaos as the servants packed and prepared for the annual move to the lake house. Deborah was so busy with preparations that she fell into bed each night too exhausted to cry. Her estrangement from her husband continued.