Silver-Tongued Devil (Louisiana Plantation Collection) (30 page)

“What was it Renold asked you to do?” Angelica said, cutting across the floundering explanations.

“I — oh, it sounds so very wicked if you put it into words. It wasn’t meant that way, you must believe me. I would not have been drawn into it at all, except for the circumstances of having once known your father. Renold assured me that the wrong we were doing was only to right another wrong far worse. And anyway, that young man of yours seemed not to value you as he should.”

“Please, Madame Parnell.”

The older woman began to fumble at her bodice. The woman with her, apparently her niece, reached into her drawstring purse and pulled out a handkerchief, pushing it into her aunt’s groping hand. Madame Parnell wiped at her nose, and touched the bandages over her eyes as if habit was stronger than need.

“Well, it was like this,” she said in half-strangled tones. “I was to wait until a certain time, then come to your room. No one would be around, for it would be late and Renold said he would pay the ladies’ attendant to find duties elsewhere. I was to open the door, then pretend great shock at the sight of the two of you — that is, at the fact that you had a man not related to you in your stateroom.”

As she faltered, her niece put a square, work-roughened hand on her back, soothing her. “You don’t have to say any more. Aunt Dorothy.”

“Yes, I do,” Madame Parnell said on a gasping breath. “It’s important. What Renold intended wasn’t — wasn’t your ruin; he said he would be honor-bound to offer for you, and so he would. He said — he said he would not hurt you in any way, and that he would make you a good husband and always behave toward you as a gentleman should. Oh, dear, oh, dear.” She rocked back and forth while a sob caught in her throat. “He was so handsome and seemed taken with you, as well as determined to get his stepfather’s place back. I thought you might — that is, I thought it would not matter so much, after all.”

Questions, cries, demands crowded Angelica’s tongue so quickly that she could not untangle them enough to speak. It was then that Estelle, knocking once, came into the room with the coffee tray.

The maid was not alone. Hard on her heels was Renold’s mother.

Madame Delaup surveyed the visitors with a critical eye. Watching her, Angelica realized for the first time that Madame Parnell and her niece were wearing the simple homespun and plain straw bonnets without ribbon or frills that marked them as being something less than gentry.

What had happened to the jewels and fine clothing the actress had worn on the steamboat? Lost in the explosion, perhaps? Or could it all have been as false as her pretense of friendship on that night?

The smile Renold’s mother gave the women was cool, her greeting a shade too gracious. She went on, “How very pleasant it is, to be sure, to meet friends of Angelica’s. Do you live nearby?”

It was the niece who answered, bristling visibly as she spoke. “My aunt is acquainted with your son, ma’am. His wife we barely know. As for where we live, I don’t see it matters, but my husband and I have a place downriver. My aunt stays with us now.”

“I see.” Madame Delaup glanced around, then moved to take a seat behind the coffee tray which sat ready. Picking up the silver pot, she said, “Coffee anyone?”

But Madame Parnell’s niece was rising to her feet. “I don’t think we care for any. My aunt has said what she came to say, I think. We had best be going.”

The former actress, following the exchange, put on dignity as if assuming a costume for a role. “Quite right,” she said, elevating her chin in a gesture made pitiful by her bandaged, sightless eyes. Her false hauteur dissolved, however, as she turned in the direction from which Angelica had last spoken. “I am so sorry, my dear, truly, I am. Ask Renold to forgive me, will you? And perhaps you will forgive him — since it seems to have turned out for the best?”

“Yes, certainly,” Angelica said. “Please don’t concern yourself any longer. Everything is fine.”

What else was there to say, after all? There was no purpose in telling the blind woman that the plot she had been involved in had turned into a disaster.

Avoiding the eyes of her mother-in-law, Angelica walked her visitors to the front steps and saw them into their wagon. She stood staring after them as Madame Parnell’s niece, competent at the reins, sent the ramshackle vehicle away down the drive.

She was not aware that Madame Delaup had followed her out onto the steps until she spoke at her elbow. “Attacks of conscience,” the older woman said, “should be repelled at all costs. They usually harm more than they help.”

“You heard,” Angelica said without surprise.

The other woman’s face was impassive, though there were tiny lines of tension at the corners of her eyes. “I was arranging a bowl of roses for the dining table. The door between the dining room and the back salon was not shut well.”

Angelica let her breath out in a small sigh. “I’m sure she had the best of intentions.”

“They always do.” Margaret Delaup glanced at her. “I was about to turn out the linen closet. Would you care to join me?”

It was either a bribe or an olive branch, Angelica was not certain which. There was, of course, no question of refusal.

“It would be a pleasure,” she said as she turned and walked back into the house with the other woman.

The linen closet was a large armoire of handmade cypress which took up most of the end wall of the bedchamber used by Renold’s mother. She was serious about inspecting it.

The armoire seemed bottomless, disgorging linen sheets, pillowcases, shams, and bolster covers without number, most of them monogrammed or else embroidered in flower designs in colors or white on white. There were piles of toweling in bird’s eye weave, also tablecloths of damask and jacquard from sizes to fit a tea table to those large enough to cover a banquet board, and all with napkins to match. Bolts of cloth took up one whole shelf, including fine linen and cotton to be made up into men’s shirts, lawn for handkerchiefs and ladies undergarments, and even soft flannel for baby diapers. Nothing in the nature of linen had been overlooked.

Angelica and the maids stacked everything on the bed, then unfolded and inspected each piece, checking them for rips, tears, and stains. Those that needed attention were set aside. The others were refolded and handed to Madame Delaup, who counted each piece off against a master list before putting it back in its proper place. From a basket nearby, the older woman took pieces of vetiver root, slipping them between the items to scent the stacks and keep out insects.

When they had finished, the several hundred pieces were neatly stacked in a fresh-smelling and impressive display.

Angelica had often helped her Aunt Augusta with the same task. However, the collection of linen had not been nearly so impressive. Reaching to smooth the intricate drawnwork and hemstitching of a pillowcase border, she said to Renold’s mother, “You have some wonderful pieces. I’ve never seen such beautiful needlework.”

The older woman’s smile was wry. “The credit isn’t mine. Almost everything was here when I came, the result of several generations of brides arriving at the house with twelve dozen of every useful item. My contribution is to keep them in good condition for the next mistress of the house. You, as it happens.”

It was a concession of some magnitude, especially as it was made in front of witnesses who would be certain to carry news of it back to everyone else at Bonheur. Angelica might have thought it inadvertent, except that she had lived with Renold’s mother long enough to understand that, like her son, there was a purpose behind most of what she said and did.

Her gaze sea blue and clear, Angelica said, “In that case, I thank you for your care. I only wish that I might have added to the supply.”

“There’s nothing to keep you from it, eventually, since you have an interest in it and talent with a needle.” Madame Delaup closed the doors of the armoire and glanced at the maids. To them, she said pleasantly, “That will be all. Perhaps you will inform Tit Jean that we would like fresh coffee? Tell him also, if you please, to find M’sieur Renold and ask him to join us here.”

There was a small table sitting near the French doors which stood open to the morning air. As the maids left the room, Madame Delaup moved in that direction, indicating with a graceful wave of her hand that Angelica should be seated. She took the opposite chair, then settled her skirts around her feet before she leaned back, resting her wrists on the arms of the chair. She studied Angelica’s face for long moments before she spoke.

“My son,” she said, “is very much his father’s child — I am assuming you are aware Renold was not fathered by my late husband?” At Angelica’s brief nod, she went on. “Renold’s father was the son of a small landowner in County Kerry; his name was Sean Dominick O’Malley. Sean was sent to school at Douai in France, since education was difficult for Catholics in Ireland. Revolutionary ideas were in the air, and he listened to them. When his studies were interrupted by the Terror, he returned home, but brought his ideas of freedom and equality with him. Sean became involved with me, then, but also with Daniel O’Connell and the Catholic committee, and the agitation for Catholic rights. His skill at organization and opposition brought him into conflict with the authorities at Dublin castle. A decision was made to remove him and he was charged with smuggling — he had an uncle who was a free trader, and Sean may actually have given the man a hand from time to time. He was arrested the day before our wedding, hanged on the day itself. Fate enjoys its little ironies.”

“I’m sorry.” Angelica did not add to that. It was inadequate, she knew, but nothing else seemed likely to help.

Madame Delaup gave a small nod. “I was expecting his child, of course. I could have stayed in Ireland; my family would not have disowned me. But I suppose I had heard too many speeches about freedom; I hated the thought of Sean’s child being born into the same narrow world that had killed him. One night I packed my bag, stole the money from my father for my passage, and took ship for New Orleans.”

“It was a brave thing to do.”

“It was foolhardy,” the older woman corrected with a wan smile. “Renold and I almost starved — I thought for a long time that I was being punished for my sins. Sometimes, I still think so.”

The gaze Madame Delaup bent upon Angelica was searching, as if she wondered how much of the story Angelica might have heard. Sitting forward in her chair, Angelica said in encouragement, “You and he were alone for some time, I think.”

“I was so young. Renold was my playmate, my toy, and my mainstay in one. We were close, so close. Then I met and married Gerald Delaup. Renold saw it as a betrayal, and also an admission that he had failed me. M’sieur Delaup he forgave for taking me away. For me for allowing it there can be no forgiveness.”

“A harsh judgment, and untrue. He cares for you greatly.”

“Love and forgiveness are two different things. One can love from afar, half fearful of the feeling, but to forgive you must come close and take many things on trust. He remains apart, locked inside himself in fierce isolation. I wonder, then, if I am not to blame for his treatment of you.”

“I hardly think so. Renold is not a child hanging around his mother’s petticoats.” It wasn’t easy to find words to say what she meant, but she trusted that the other woman would understand.

“No, indeed. Yet he has grown hard and mistrustful, and with no great respect for a woman’s word or her feelings.”

Angelica searched the older woman’s face. “That may be, but everything he did was to keep Bonheur for his half-sister and for you, mostly for you.”

“Yes, and what, precisely, has he done? In spite of everything, I would have said that my son would never misuse a lady. Apparently I was wrong.” Lips stiff, she added, “You are, of course, under no obligation to disclose the extent of my error. Still, I would like very much to know what he did to you.”

There was a warm breeze wafting in at the door. It fanned Angelica’s flushed cheeks as she returned the other woman’s steady gaze. Finally, she said, “Perhaps it would be best if you applied to Renold.”

“Depend upon it, I shall,” his mother said. “However, it’s possible your perception of what took place may be different from that of my son.”

“Nothing happened,” Angelica said in abrupt decision. “The boat exploded.”

“And later?”

Angelica looked away from her. “Later, we were — married.”

“I see. After this thing that did not happen, then, you accepted my son’s proposal and entered into matrimony with him with an easy mind and heart?”

“The occasion was somewhat unusual,” Angelica began.

“Which means that you did not. Were you asked?”

The words, sharp-edged as razors, were irritating, and perhaps meant to be. “Being insensible at the time, there was a little difficulty there, also.”

“Insensible? You mean he—” Renold’s mother drew a quick, uneven breath. “No. He would not do that. What do you mean?”

“She means,” came a hard voice from the door, “that joyful as the event may have been, she has no memory of it.”

His mother sat forward in her chair to face Renold. “But you do.”

His smile as he came forward was sardonic, his bow a model of courtesy in spite of hair that was wet from the exertion of riding and clothes that reeked of horse. He said in answer to her question, “The occasion is chiseled on mind and heart.”