Authors: Eugenia Riley
“And what did you say when he
asked you?”
Studying Madelaine’s expression of
avid fascination, Mercy decided that enough was enough. She would keep her word
to Julian, but nothing required her to build a monument to deceit. “I said
nothing, madame,” she answered truthfully. “You see, Julian did not ask me to
marry him.”
“He didn’t ask? Then how did you
become . . . ?”
Mercy clenched her jaw. “He told
me I would marry him.”
Madelaine chortled her delight.
“He
told
you? Ah, but that’s even better! These passionate Creoles.” With
a confidential wink, she added, “You know, Julian is the very image of his
grandfather.”
“Is he? And what of his father?”
Madelaine sighed. “Jacques was a
fine man, but, truth to tell, he was rather dull. This impetuosity of nature
must skip a generation. At any rate, Jacques’s father, Pierre Devereux—now that
man was the very devil himself.”
“Was he?” Mercy was fascinated.
“
Oui
,” Madelaine confided.
“As a young man, Pierre came here from France and established a successful
cotton commission exchange. He fell hopelessly in love with a young debutante,
Clarisse DeLeon. When she refused his suit, he kidnapped her and took her off
to the river. He had a priest waiting on a keelboat.”
“
Mon Dieu
!” Mercy gasped.
“So that’s where Julian acquired his—er—”
“Indeed,” Madelaine agreed, her
blue eyes twinkling. “In fact, when Pierre and Clarisse stood before the priest
and she still balked at the idea of taking her vows, Pierre threatened to . . .
” Madelaine leaned over and whispered the rest in Mercy’s ear.
“In front of everyone?” Mercy
asked, her face as red as an apple.
The two women forced themselves
into silence as Raoul lumbered into the room with a tea tray. Madelaine turned
to begin serving the repast, and Mercy took a moment to collect herself. She
now knew from whence Julian had inherited his dangerous, roguish nature. She
also presumed he had inherited quite a bit of his nerve from his outspoken
mother.
“Now—where were we?” Madelaine
asked as she handed Mercy a filled teacup. She smiled. “You know, I like you,
Mercy.”
“I like you, too, madame.”
“I was afraid Julian would bring
home some meek, mealy-mouthed little mouse, a sanctimonious prig he could never
be happy with. But you . . . I can tell you have spirit, my girl. You’ll make
him a fine wife.”
“Thank you, madame,” Mercy
murmured, both shocked and pleased.
Madelaine touched the girl’s arm
fondly. “I must introduce you to all my friends at once.”
Mercy bit her lip as she realized
she had no real idea of what her responsibilities as Julian’s society wife would
entail. She suddenly felt grateful that she would have Madelaine’s guidance and
support. “That is generous of you.”
Madelaine waved her off. “You just
can’t know how happy I am that you’ll be taking Julian’s mind off—”
“Yes?”
Realizing her blunder, Madelaine
said quickly and vaguely, “Oh, you know how hot-blooded these Creoles are.”
Mercy frowned at Madelaine’s
perplexing statements.
She wondered what she had meant by
her comment about Julian being “hot-blooded.” And what was she supposed to take
his mind off? Some other woman, perhaps?
Before Mercy could voice her
misgivings, Madelaine continued firmly, “Now—tell me all about your background,
your family.”
At this, Mercy felt even more
uncertain. Madelaine would never approve of her parents, and she could never be
friends with anyone who cast the slightest aspersions on their memory. “What do
you want to know?” she inquired proudly.
But Madelaine was already far
ahead of her. Throwing Mercy a disarming smile, she said, “Julian told me that
your father was an Irish immigrant. Irish blood is good, my dear. I’m sure
that’s where you’ve gotten your spirit, your stamina. Now—tell me of your
mother.”
“She was French,” Mercy said
cautiously.
“Ah—and where did she come from?”
Mercy frowned. “From Natchez, I believe.”
“Ah, yes, Natchez. Jacques and I
went there once for the horse races. An enchanting community. Do you remember
your mother’s maiden name?”
“Oh, yes,” Mercy murmured,
suddenly lost in turbulent memory. That particular name was etched on the
headstone of the grave she visited so frequently, the grave she dutifully
draped each year on All Saints’ Day. Her father lay in the same plot, and Mercy
had always presumed that Julian had paid for everything—just as he had bought
and paid for her very life.
“Mercy?” Madelaine prodded.
Muttering an apology, she turned
back to Madelaine. “My mother’s maiden name was Dubois. Corrine Dubois.”
“Dubois . . .”
Mercy stared at the other woman
tensely. “Do you know something of my mother’s family?”
Madelaine nodded. “Why, yes. I do
believe the Dubois are quite prominent in Natchez.”
Mercy’s green eyes clouded.
“Perhaps so. I can remember my mother telling me not long before she died that
her family disowned her when she married Papa. I’ve had no desire to try to
find them since then.”
Madelaine saw the bitterness
shining in Mercy’s eyes, and the pride—a pride she must dare never to affront,
she mused wisely. “I’m sorry, dear. Now—tell me all about your training at the
convent school.”
Mercy rolled her eyes. “Madame, I
would bore you to tears.”
“Come now, dear. I am simply
trying to be helpful, in case any element of your training is lacking. Is there
any area you can think of offhand?”
How to be a proper wife
,
Mercy thought grimly. To Madelaine, however, she politely related the specifics
of her studies, including the academics, French, etiquette, decorum, and music.
Madelaine brightened. “So you
sing, then? Will you favor me with a song?”
“Madame, I sing like a scalded
cat.”
Madelaine laughed gaily. “Then
you’ll play for me on the piano?”
Madelaine’s determined expression
forced Mercy to say grudgingly, “
Oui
, madame.”
She obediently trudged off to the
piano, sat down, and proceeded to play a Bach prelude very badly.
With great restraint Madelaine
managed not to grimace at Mercy’s discordant playing. The girl was a wretched
piano player, but then, that was not why Julian wanted to marry her. One look
at the girl made his reasons quite clear.
Madelaine had not expected to like
Julian’s convent bride. Yet her first glimpse of Mercy had changed her mind.
The girl was perfect—beautiful, spirited, and proud, a strong match for her
domineering, arrogant son. Mercy was also clearly an aristocrat; her classical
features gave her away. The fact that her father had been an Irish laborer was
hardly ideal; but Madelaine was also well aware that Mercy’s mother’s people,
the Dubois, were among the most wealthy and esteemed families in all of Natchez. Indeed, at some point, she might make some discreet overtures toward the Dubois,
since it would not hurt for Mercy’s prominent background to be known in New Orleans society.
Yet Madelaine would make no
contact with Mercy’s family until after the girl was safely wed to her son. For
Madelaine would let nothing stand in the way of this match—and risk Julian’s
falling back on his original, disastrous choice of Justine Begué.
***
Out in the garden, Julian paced
among the roses in the stifling heat. His black silk cravat seemed to strangle
him, and he tugged at it distractedly.
He could hear sounds of feminine
laughter drifting out through the parlor window. What on earth were his mother
and Mercy discussing in there?
Him, no doubt. He had a feeling
that Mercy was now having a grand time maligning his character in the presence
of his mother.
He glanced out at Madelaine’s
prize-winning roses, arranged in perfect rows, their green tendrils and
succulent blossoms stretching toward the sun. There were velvety reds, lush
yellows, dusky pinks, all spilling their enticing fragrance into the air.
The roses reminded him of Mercy.
The ravishing blossoms that begged one to touch, and the razor-sharp thorns
that pricked when one succumbed to temptation.
Abruptly, he raised his head. He
could hear a Bach prelude being butchered on the piano. Who was playing?
Certainly not his mother, who was an accomplished musician.
The devil with it all, he decided
impatiently. If the music hour had arrived, he could assume his exile was over.
***
“Julian, she’s delightful!”
Madelaine whispered moments later as she and her son sat on the settee
together. Beyond them, Mercy continued to play the piano, this time blundering
all over a Beethoven minuet.
Julian raised a finely shaped
brow. “I presume you’re not referring to her piano playing?”
Madelaine laughed. “Nor are you marrying
her for her musical genius.”
Julian couldn’t contain a grin.
“Quite true. Actually, I’m shocked and rather touched that you approve of her.”
Madelaine started to comment about
Justine, then wisely caught herself. “So when do you plan to marry the girl?”
“As soon as the banns can be
read.”
Madelaine’s eyes grew huge.
“Julian! A mere three weeks! ’Twill cause a terrible scandal.”
He shrugged.
“Julian,” she implored, touching
his sleeve, “you’re only going to marry once, God willing. Do it properly. Don’t
begin your marriage under a taint of impropriety.”
He frowned. “How much time would
you consider appropriate?”
“At least three months.”
“You’re out of your mind.”
“Two months?”
“Six weeks,” he ground out.
Madelaine threw up her hands.
“Very well. You’re committing social suicide, but I’ll do my best to help you
muddle through it. First, I must take Mercy around and introduce her to all my
friends—”
“Mother, is this nonsense really
necessary?”
“Nonsense? Will it be nonsense
after you’re married, and receive none of the proper invitations? Will it be
nonsense when your children are excluded from the right social circles?”
“I concede the point, Mother,” he
said wearily. “But keep the flummery at a minimum, will you?”
Ignoring him, she went on. “And
then in a few weeks, we’ll throw a ball at the St. Louis to make our
announcement. You’ll marry at the cathedral—”
“Mama, the sisters are already
planning a small service at St. Mary’s chapel. You mustn’t take all the
planning out of their hands.”
Madelaine sighed. “Very well, but
I’ll have to persuade them to hold the Mass in the main sanctuary. Our many
friends will never fit in the chapel.”
Julian groaned. “I give up.”
Staring at Mercy at the piano, he dared to voice his fear. “And while you’re
doing all this fine planning and socializing . . . What if mademoiselle changes
her mind?”
“Julian!” Madelaine Devereux was
clearly outraged. “Whatever do you think the bridegroom is for?”
***
Whatever do you think the
bridegroom is for?
Julian mulled over his mother’s brash question as Henrí
drove him and Mercy back to the parish house. He studied her seated across from
him, staring out the window. She hadn’t betrayed him by revealing their shared
past. He had to give her credit there.
“You seem to like my mother,” he
murmured.
“Actually, I like her much better
than I like her son,” Mercy replied forthrightly.
He chuckled. “Now, why should that
surprise me?”
She tilted her chin. “If we are to
proceed with this travesty of a marriage, then I am grateful to have madame’s
assistance.”
“I see.” He studied her
assessingly. “Be careful, Mercy. My mother has her fine points, of course, but
she also tends to be domineering.”
Mercy harrumphed loudly. “That
statement is quite amusing, since I can’t possibly imagine anyone more domineering
than Madame Devereux’s son.” She regarded Julian suspiciously. “Your mother
said I would take your mind off of . . .”
“Yes?” he inquired tensely.
Mercy shrugged. “She wasn’t
specific. Something having to do with hot blood.”
Julian glanced away, releasing the
breath he had been holding. Obviously, his mother had almost made a disastrous
slip about Justine. He must again warn his mother to take all care. He inwardly
cringed at Mercy’s imagined reaction if she learned about Justine and Arnaud
now.
He watched Mercy cross her arms
over her bosom and resume staring out the window. He groaned at the sight of
her dipping bodice. More cleavage. More frustration.
***
Whatever do you think the
bridegroom is for?
Julian was still ruminating over his mother’s question
as he led his fiancée back up the warm, nectar-scented path to the parish
house. Mercy strode beside him, her fingertips barely touching his sleeve, her
beautiful features as remote and implacable as ice—an ice he would so love to
melt.
Being around her today had been
sweet torture. He was hardly accustomed to this self-enforced role as proper
fiancé. If he truly wanted something from a woman, he was used to taking it—and
having her give back in full measure.
He also felt anxious about the
longer period of engagement his mother had insisted on. What if Mercy found
some way to weasel out of the marriage in the interim?
This he would not allow, he
thought with sudden, fierce possessiveness. Whether or not mademoiselle wanted
the marriage, he was going to have mademoiselle. Indeed, the chit deserved no
less for baiting him so . . .
They passed beneath the crabapple
tree where Julian had caught Mercy with Philippe only a few short days past.
Mercy paused to stare wistfully at the tree, noting that the blooms were
withering. A lifetime seemed to have passed since that fateful day when she had
stood here with Philippe, and Julian had burst upon them so angrily.