Prisoner of Desire (16 page)

A sound like a sob caught in her throat and she choked it down. She would not cry; it was too late for that. If only she could turn back the clock and be the way she had been that morning, whole and chaste, and with her self-respect intact. She could not. There was nothing to be done except forget the incident, put it behind her.

Your virtue for my honor
—

Dear heaven, would she ever forget the things he had said, the way he had looked at her and touched her, the way she had responded to him? Would storms and the smells of cottonseed and lint and a warm male body always remind her? How long would it be before she ceased to feel as if she had been used like a woman of the streets? How long before she could learn to live with the fact that Ravel Duralde had taken her virginity, not out of passionate need or caring, but simply because he could not resist an easy conquest, a fitting revenge?

Denise was waiting, sitting in a chair in Anya’s bedchamber. She got to her feet as Anya stepped in through the open French windows from the back gallery. Her gaze widened until her eyes were round and staring in her head as she saw Anya’s wet gown opened down the back and her hair straggling from its makeshift knot.

“Mam’zelle, what happened?” she cried.

“Nothing of importance,” Anya said, summoning a smile. She threw aside her shawl and began to take the pins from her damp tresses, letting them fall once more. “I would like a brandy, and a hot bath, if you please?”

The housekeeper did not move. “Did he attack you?”

“I would rather not talk about it.”

“But,
chère,
you got to tell me.”

Denise had been Anya’s nurse, companion, and near as much of a mother as Madame Rosa had ever been. It was impossible to deny her. Anya gave a soft sigh. “He didn’t attack me; at least not in the way you mean.”

“He forced you?”

“Not precisely.”

“But you went to bed with him?”

Anya moved away from her. “What does it matter? I’m all right. There’s no need for concern.”

“You are compromised,
chère;
he done this to you and he has to make it right. He’s got to marry you.”

Anya whirled back to face the housekeeper. “No! I won’t have it.”

She could just imagine what Ravel would say if he were told he must marry the woman who had abducted him. But even if he would agree, she had no wish to be wed to a man she hated, a man who would use such base means to get what he wanted.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.

The housekeeper hesitated a moment, as if she would argue further, but then began to move toward the door.

“Denise, when you return you may begin packing for me. I return to New Orleans in the morning.”

“With M’sieur Duralde?” the woman asked, her tone stiff with disapproval.

“Alone.”

“You will leave him here, in the gin? But mam’zelle, you can’t!”

“I can.”

“Think of the scandal if people get to know! I understand you being mad at him,
chère,
but this ain’t right.”

“Maybe not, but I don’t care.”

“His people will be worried; they’ll search for him. They may even call in the police.”

“Let them.”

“But
chère—”

Anya sighed and let her shoulders sag. “I know, I know, and I will be back to set him free in a day or two. As for his people, I have been told it isn’t unusual for him to be gone without notice for short periods; there should not be too much of a stir.”

“He’ll be fit to be tied, sure enough. He may go to the police himself.”

“And admit he was held prisoner by a woman? He will not want to make such a thing public knowledge.”

Denise gave a slow nod. “You might be right, but what if he decides to dish out justice hisself? He’ll have plenty of time to think about it.”

The thought sent a shiver along Anya’s nerves. It was entirely possible, though it might also be that Ravel would consider what he had done already as ample repayment for her crime.

“I will worry about that when the time comes.”

The housekeeper said no more, but went away to prepare the bath. Later, when Anya had soaked the chill from her bones and drunk her brandy, when Denise had packed her trunk, then lowered the lamp and taken her rain-soaked silk gown and mud-splashed petticoats away to be refurbished, Anya lay in bed staring into the darkness. The anger that had buoyed her up until this moment slowly seeped away. She was left with a great weariness of the spirits.

She felt betrayed. It was not just what Ravel had done to her that oppressed her, but a feeling also that she had been deceived by her own emotions. She had come very close to feeling compassion for him and even sincere admiration. More than that, he had awakened in her a degree of passion and desire she had never dreamed she could know. His tenderness, his generous concern for her pleasure, the exquisite care with which he had initiated her into the mystery of making love had been a revelation. She had come very near to liking him for a few short minutes.

How could she have been so wrong? How could a man she had hated for so many years convince her so easily to reassess her feelings toward him? It argued a blind spot of some kind in her nature that he had been able to do so. It made her wonder if, in some way she had not heretofore expected, she was susceptible to the blandishments of handsome men, that the overpowering strength of her own passions could make her forget reality. Or was it possible that it was only one man who could trigger those emotions, only one to whom she was vulnerable?

Her sole source of satisfaction was that, regardless of her supine behavior, she had not been weak enough to let Ravel go free. There would be no duel tomorrow, no matter what might happen in the future.

It was not much of a consolation. Slow tears, draining from the corners of her eyes, tracked down her temples into her hair. She turned her face into her pillow and wept.

The first thing Madame Rosa wanted to know when Anya entered the salon of the townhouse in New Orleans was what emergency had taken her from the city in the middle of the night. She was looking soignée in her usual plump and indulgent fashion, dressed in a morning gown of black silk and with a cap of white lace tied with lavender and black ribbon rosettes set with purple silk violets on her hair. She was having her usual cup of midmorning imperial tea, along with a few trifles to stave off hunger until noon, among them coconut bonbons, cream chocolates, and
dragées
on a crystal plate, with nearby a jar of English biscuits smelling strongly of vanilla, and beside that a plate laid with slices of Gruyère cheese, truffled sausages, small rounds of bread, and, as an aid to digestion, a few fancy dried prunes.

Anya removed her kid gloves and took off her bonnet, handing them to a maid. Moving to her step-mother’s chair, she bent to kiss her cheek. “If you will pour me a cup of tea while I go to my bedchamber to wash my hands, I will tell you all about it when I get back.”

“Certainly,
chère,
and I will put something on a plate for you. You have always been thin, but this morning you look positively peaked.”

Madame Rosa, for all her indolence, was nothing if not observant. Anya knew she should have remembered and been prepared. Aloud she merely thanked her and continued through the salon to the more private rooms of the house.

By the time she returned, she had pinched some color into her cheeks and was ready with a glib tale of an illness in the slave quarters that Denise had feared was dysentery from polluted water but had turned out to be merely a highly contagious stomach ailment. To forestall further questions, she went on to ask what the older woman and Celestine had done in her absence.

At that moment, Celestine swept into the room. Hearing the question, she answered before Madame Rosa could begin to speak. “We have had the most frustrating time this morning you can imagine! High and low we have looked for a scarlet petticoat like the one worn by Queen Victoria at Balmoral, and have not been able to find such a thing anywhere. All we have had is stupid jokes about red flags to bulls and the trouble sure to be brought on by wearing such a garment. One buffoon even suggested that after being tossed by a bull, the petticoat should then be called a ‘gored’ skirt!”

“I remember reading about it somewhere,” Anya said. “I suppose it’s become the rage?”

“Exactly. Not only is every merchant in the city sold out, but there’s hardly a piece of red flannel to be found anywhere, or a seamstress not already piled high with more embroidery work than she can handle. But Anya, it’s such a cunning style! It’s worn on the top of your crinoline, and the skirt of your gown is looped up on one side to show the fancy embroidered border at the hem in the most dashing manner.”

Anya had to smile at her enthusiasm. “It doesn’t sound like something Victoria would introduce.”

“I believe,” Madame Rosa said in her ponderous way, “that the idea was to enable her to lift her gown hem to protect it from the mud of Scotland, while showing something durable and commonplace instead of indiscreet white linen and lace. No one seems to think anything of pulling their skirts up quite high to keep them out of the dirt while they are wearing one.”

“Men, I assume, are in favor of the style, then?”

“Extremely,” Celestine said with a twinkling laugh.

“Gaspard considers it tasteless,” Madame Rosa announced, “but then so many women wear gowns with it that clash abominably with the red color.”

“What else has been happening?”

“Goodness, Anya, you sound as if you have been gone forever instead of only two days.” Celestine looked at her with wide eyes.

“Do I?” In truth she felt that way. It also seemed that she had changed in some fundamental way, so that her interest in such things as red petticoats was forced, merely polite.

Madame Rosa said, “I understand we missed a memorable performance by Charlotte Cushman as Mrs. Haller on the night of the
bal masqué.
We plan to remedy the error by seeing her as Queen Katherine in
Henry the Eighth
this evening, if you would care to join us?”

“I would enjoy that.” Perhaps it would be a distraction from her thoughts, if nothing else.

“Oh, Anya, you haven’t heard the news, have you?” Celestine suddenly exclaimed. “The most peculiar thing occurred; you won’t believe it! Murray came around before breakfast this morning to tell us about it, since he knew I would be sick with worry. All our alarms were for nothing. The duel did not take place! Ravel Duralde failed to appear. No one seems to know why, or where precisely he may be. It’s a great mystery.”

“How — strange,” Anya managed, keeping her lashes lowered as she sipped at her tea.

“Yes, indeed. It seems the man spoke with his seconds, asked them to act for him so that plans for the duel could be made, but has not been seen since. Murray is piqued. He feels that it is a deliberate slight, that Duralde considered him so negligible that he let the meeting slip his mind, leaving town without a thought of it. For myself, I don’t care. I am relieved beyond measure that it is over.”

“Yes, of course,” Anya said, summoning a teasing smile with an effort. “You were so relieved that you went out shopping at once for a red petticoat?”

“Exactly,” Celestine agreed with a bubbling laugh.

Madame Rosa entered the conversation. “The puzzle of the man’s absence has not received as much attention as it might have due to the terrible news in the newspapers this morning of the explosion aboard the
Colonel Cushman.
The steamboat was near New Madrid en route to St. Louis. They say eighteen people were killed, but as yet there is no news of the survivors.”

“One of Murray’s friends was on board with his wife and two children,” Celestine added.

“The usual cause, I suppose?” Anya commented.

“Too much pressure,” Madame Rosa agreed with a nod. “After the boilers exploded, the vessel caught on fire and sank inside twenty minutes. The passengers had to jump overboard. They say the
Southerner,
just ahead of them, turned around and came back to pick up those in the water.”

“There was no one we knew on her, by the blessing of
le bon Dieu,”
Celestine added.

“Yes, a blessing,” Anya agreed, sipping at her tea. There were more tragic things in this world than that which had happened to her. She would do well to remember it.

And yet she could not forget. The memory remained with her as stubbornly as a winter cold, increased tenfold by Celestine’s mention of Murray’s view of the events surrounding the duel. It carried with it outrage and chagrin and a nagging sense of anguish that demanded some kind of action as an antidote.

Despite the cold and overcast day, she dragged Celestine with her for a bout of shopping for Beau Refuge, buying casks of Louisiana Isabella wine from the 1856 vintage, also boxes of bottles of Chateau Margaux from Bordeaux, several half-bottles each of white and brown curaçao from Amsterdam, and a box of Copenhagen cherry cordial. She bought cases of Worcestershire and walnut sauce, three barrels of cracknel biscuits, two barrels of sardines, and a chest each of imperial and hyson tea. She bought a dozen brass-bound churns for the plantation dairy, a bale of blankets for the storeroom for next winter, and for the dispensary a case of quinine and a barrel of castor oil.