Her hair was washed in soft rain water and then brushed dry in the sun. It was then polished by being rubbed with a length of silk and arranged in a crown of curls without a trace of pomade. Her nails were carefully shaped and buffed until they were pink and smooth and shining, then afterward her hands and arms, shoulders, knees, and feet were smoothed with scented lotion. When the maid had finished, she and Anne-Marie packed the last remaining items into her trunks, then saw them strapped and carried downstairs. By then, it was noon and a tray with a light meal was brought up to the bride’s chamber. Afterward, she was left alone for a period of rest and repose.
This was the time when most brides knelt at the prie-dieu that adorned every bedchamber and prayed to God for happiness, fruitfulness, and mercy. Anne-Marie tried diligently, kneeling on the small velvet-covered bench with her rosary between her knit fingers and her gaze on the crucifix hanging on the wall above it.
But the image of Lucien’s face kept coming between her and her devotions. She found herself thinking, instead, of what it would mean if she were to make herself over into a proper wife.
No more rambling in the woods. No more running with wild creatures. No more hanging back in company and pretending to be shy. No more watching the world and its odd antics instead of joining them.
No more ignoring the future. No more thinking only of herself. No more privacy. No more sleeping alone.
She rose from the prie-dieu and paced the room that had been hers all the long years of her childhood, but would never be hers again. Moving to the window, she rested her forehead against the cool glass, staring out toward the woods that lay beyond the barn.
Her father found her there as the sun canted toward the west. A troubled look on his face, he came to her side and put his arm around her, saying in gruff tones, “Are you well,
chère
?”
“Yes, of course.” What other reply was there, now?
“This marriage, it’s to your liking?”
Lucien was right; she saw that clearly. Her father was not a strong man, had never been one. He liked his comfort and his pleasures. He did not deal well with emotions. If he had doubts about what he and the woman now his wife had arranged for her, he had chosen a poor time to express them, now when it was almost too late. Yet he was just a human being trying to muddle through the business of living as best he could. He had endured his sorrows and gone on to rebuild the on the ruins of the past. He was her father, and he was concerned for her.
“It’s what I want,” she said in quiet reassurance.
“Good.” He drew a long breath. “That’s good then.” He gave her arm a squeeze, then ran his hand up and down it as if still distracted. “I’m going to miss you, you know. You’ll write?”
“Certainly, as often as there is news.”
“Or even if there is none, just to let us know that you are alive and safe?”
“Yes.” She swallowed on a rush of tears.
“And if
Roquelaire
doesn’t treat you as he should—not that I expect it, mind, for he’s a gentleman—but if things should not turn out as you like, then you know you have only to send word. I will come at once to bring you home again.”
“Oh, Papa.” She could not say more.
He heard the distress in her voice and was nervous of it. Giving her another quick hug, he said gruffly, “That’s all right then, as long as you remember. I just want what is best for you.” Turning away, he went out and closed the door behind him.
Everything seemed to move at a hectic pace after he had gone. She had her bath. The maid returned and she was encased in corset, hoop, and petticoats. Her gown was lifted over her head in a quick flinging movement, then fastened up the back and settled around her. Her mother’s veil of fine
Valenciennes
was pinned in place, and a bouquet of late summer roses placed in her hand.
All too soon, she was descending the staircase and moving toward where Lucien stood with the priest. She reached for his arm like grasping a lifeline. As his hand closed warm and firm around her chill fingers, she shivered once, and then was still.
The rest passed as in a dream: the vows, the blessing, then the food and wine, the music and dancing. Too soon, she was passing her bouquet with her father to be placed on her mother’s grave. The last goodbyes were said. She and Lucien moved down the steps and out to the carriage that was decorated with knots of ribbon. The final good wishes were called after them as they bowled away down the drive.
Before she knew it, the white wedding-cake pile of the steamboat loomed ahead of them at the dock. They pulled alongside and she was handed down by her new husband. The narrow gangplank shifted under them with the easy motion of the river’s current as they boarded.
Cordial greetings were extended by the captain himself. They were turned over to a steward then, one who led the way through the great main cabin with its Wilton carpeting in rich, jewel colors, its massive brass chandeliers and archways hung with ornate stalactites of woodwork. The door of their stateroom was reached and a coin changed hands. They stepped inside, and the heavy door beneath its painted transom closed behind them.
She and Lucien were alone. Together.
The accommodation was doubtless the best the boat had to offer, being a corner stateroom with cross-ventilation from two sets of windows and a double view of the river. However, it was barely large enough to contain its marble-topped rosewood washstand, small table with matching side chairs, and mahogany four-poster bed draped with mosquito netting. The
tole
-shaded lamp that burned on the table shed its light easily into the four corners.
Anne-Marie, suddenly beset by nerves, busied herself removing her gloves, then unpinning her veil and folding it carefully away. Her trunks had been delivered earlier; they sat in a corner along with a strange one of leather-bound brass that must belong to Lucien. She lifted the lid of her smallest trunk and placed the veil inside, then took out her nightgown and hairbrush that she had left ready to hand.
From the corners of her eyes, she saw Lucien remove his hat and gloves and lay them aside with his cane. He stripped off the tail coat of his evening suit and draped it across a chair, then walked to the casement window that stood open. As he pushed aside the jalousies, a soft night wind off the water drifted into the room, bringing welcome coolness and the shimmer of moonlight on the water.
Resting one shoulder against the window frame, he spoke without turning. “You need not be wary of me; I’m not going to spring at you.”
“I never expected it,” she said, her voice not quite steady.
“No? I feared you might after our last conversation. But never mind. It will be best if we take a little more time to come to know each other before embarking on the intimacies of marriage.”
She put her hairbrush down on the washstand. Then she began to pull the pins from her hair so that it fell in soft, luxuriant waves to her waist. In the washstand’s beveled mirror she could see the stiff set of her new husband’s wide shoulders. She had never seen a man without a coat other than her father on occasion or field workers; it was fascinating to follow the taut ridges of Lucien’s back muscles under the soft linen of his shirt. She had never had occasion to notice the way his hair clung in soft, shining black waves to the back of his head, either. Her fingers tingled with the abrupt urge to trace a path from the crown of his head to the hollow of his back just above his close-fitting pants.
She compressed her lips with some force before she opened them to speak. “Is that what you would prefer—to wait?”
“What I prefer doesn’t come into it,” he said after a long moment. “I want you to be comfortable with me, and with what takes place between us.”
“Comfortable,” she echoed in hollow tones. She did not find the word particularly enticing.
He turned slightly to put his back to the frame. In stringent emphasis, he said, “I don’t want you to be afraid of me.”
“I thought we had established that I am fearless.”
“You seem so, but the marriage bed is another matter.”
“It—holds no particular terrors that I can see.” She stared down at the pins she held as if she had never seen them before.
His gaze flicked toward her and away again. “Is that the truth, or only bravado? You must be very certain, because some things cannot be mended.”
He was speaking of her maidenhead, which was considerate but also patronizing. Her voice taut, she said, “I am well aware of it.”
Some of the strain eased from his stance. “I suppose you must be, if you have attended
birthings
. But between man and wife are other things just as important. Trust, faith, affection, and bone-deep ease rank high among them. I would rather allow time for these than have immediate gratification.”
She took a shallow breath, all that the constriction in her throat would allow. Her voice a husk of sound, she said, “You don’t want—that is, you don’t desire me tonight?”
“God,” he whispered, his gaze hot on her back, “there is nothing I want more.” His voice hardened. “But I have no use for a martyred bride, will not trade my desire for your hatred.”
She swung then in a smooth swirl of skirts. “My hatred? You must have some odd ideas about this marriage if you think I could come to that. I am not here, Lucien, because I was forced to be. I don’t hold you in contempt, or even dislike.”
“You think I have blood on my hands.”
“I thought so once,” she corrected him. “You explained how it came about, and I was glad to listen, but by the time you spoke to me on the subject it was no longer important.”
“No?” His gaze was startled.
Her hair gleamed around her face in the lamplight as she shook her head. “I’ve come to know you in the past weeks. I don’t believe you would do a mean thing, nor would you allow temper to sway your judgment or prevent you from acting with due regard for the principles of fairness and right. I know that you did not kill indiscriminately or without mercy, for you could not.” Her voice faltered, and tears rose to rim her eyes. “I have wished—I wish that it could have been you my brother faced that day on the dueling field. I know if it had been he would still be alive.”
In the quiet that lay between them could be heard the endless wash of the river along the steamboat’s hull. A concertina played somewhere on the bank, the music drifting out over the water. When Lucien spoke, his voice was rich and low. “That is a rare compliment. Never have I had one I value more.”
“I wanted you to know that I respect you,” she said, looking past his shoulder at the dark night beyond the window. “I would not have married you otherwise.”
“I am astounded.”
So was she, in all truth. She had not planned to say those things; they had come unbidden from some unplumbed recess inside her. Still, she recognized their source. She had given him absolution for his transgressions and her assurance of his worth because she felt his need. She felt his need because she cared.
“I think,” she began, then stopped and looked down at the pins she held so tightly they were nearly bent in half. Her gaze not quite focused, she tried again. “I think I may shock as well as astound you. Would it be too outrageous if I said that I would prefer not to delay the—the intimacy between us?”
He did not move so much as eyelash. His voice like a violin string wound too tight, he said, “The dread is so much to bear, then, that you think it will be better to have it behind you?”
With a small sound of distress, she said, “Rather because I want—I need so much to be close to something or someone, and…and you—”
“And I forced my way into your life. Since you have no choice, you will accept the role of dutiful wife and trust there may be some small compensation in allowing me near you.”
She met his gaze, her own shadowed yet valiant. “Not at all. I should not say so, perhaps, but I have often thought that you remind me of Satan. When you are with me, I—I feel for you some of the same wonder, know the same joy that you might need my care or my affection. Are you offended?”
“God, no,” he said in low fervor as he moved to her with steady strides and caught her hands. Taking the pins she held, he tossed them to the washstand then drew her carefully into his arms. “I am honored beyond reckoning to be placed in his company in your mind.”
She rested her forehead against his collar bone while tears rose in her eyes. “I did love him,” she said in soft, unsteady tones. “And he cared about me, really he did. I taught him to trust me, to accept my touch. With me, he always sheathed his claws and was as gentle as a kitten. He was my friend and my playmate. I talked to him and laughed with him, told him all my secrets. And I will miss him so much. I think…I think he is gone, really gone. And I don’t know what I am going to do.”