Authors: Eugenia Riley
That night, Julian did not come
home at all, and Mercy got little rest. Before dawn, she had Rubin drive her to
the plantation of Louis Allard on the northern outskirts of the city. The drive
was beautiful and eerie in the rosiness of predawn, as they drifted past foggy
bayous and dark, massive trees dripping with Spanish moss. Yet the loveliness
of the pastoral setting was lost on Mercy; even in the coolness, her palms were
sweating.
Spears of sunlight were breaking
through the dense trees as they approached the Dueling Oaks. Mercy leaned
forward tensely, spotting a small group of men standing beneath the two massive
trees. Three of the men were huddled off to one side; Mercy recognized André
Beaufort, as well as a physician with his black bag. The third man Mercy had
never seen before, although she assumed that he was Anton’s second.
Glancing beyond the men toward the
clearing, Mercy gasped; Julian and Anton, both in shirt-sleeves, stood back to
back with pistols raised.
Mercy frantically ordered Rubin to
halt the barouche; she hopped out of the conveyance before it even stopped and
tore off toward the trees.
“Stop! Please, you must stop!” she
called out.
All five men turned to stare at
her in consternation. Julian appeared the most alarmed and angered. Holding up
a hand, he yelled out to M’sieur Beaufort, “A moment here!” Then, tucking his
pistol in his waist, he started grimly toward his wife, while Anton stood
watching him through narrowed eyes.
Mercy met Julian at the edge of
the clearing. They stopped within inches of each other—each warily eyeing the
other—but they did not touch. As time hung frozen, Mercy watched the breeze
ripple Julian’s shirt and tug at his thick black hair. Her gaze roved hungrily
over his tall, lithe body and sculpted face, as if trying to commit his image
to memory forever. Never had he looked more handsome, never more fierce. The
thought that his vibrant light might be snuffed out forever was unbearable to
her.
Before she could think of anything
to say, he snapped, “What in the hell are you doing here, Mercy?”
She bravely touched his sleeve,
oblivious of the stares of the others. “Julian, please, call off this madness.”
“That’s out of the question. Go
home, Mercy.”
“No. You can’t force me to leave.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it, my dear.”
Ignoring his ominous tone, she
demanded, “Where were you last night?”
He sighed, and she noted with some
satisfaction that he had the grace to look embarrassed. “I stayed with André,
because I knew you’d try to persuade me from the duel. How in the hell did you
find out where we were meeting, anyway?”
“That’s not important.” Her
fear-crazed eyes met his. “Just call off the fight before it’s too late, I beg
you!”
“No.” Watching Rubin approach, he
gripped Mercy’s gloved hand. “Take madame home,” he instructed the slave.
Yet even as Julian tried to hand
Mercy over to the man, she wrenched free from her husband’s touch. Her gaze
held the panic-bright desperation of a cornered animal. “You can’t make me
leave with him!”
“Damn it, Mercy!” he warned, his
face darkening as he advanced on her.
“If you insist on following
through with this duel, then I’m staying!” she insisted half hysterically.
They glared at each other in a
fierce battle of wills. Then Mercy reached out and again touched his hand. He
didn’t pull away, and, even through her glove, she could feel a tremor of
emotion pass through his fingers.
This time, she made no effort to
conceal her love and terrible fear. “Please, Julian. I couldn’t bear it if
anything happened to you.”
At last her husband’s harsh features
wavered just slightly, and her heart leaped as she spotted a brief softening in
his eyes. She was suddenly, poignantly aware of how tired he looked, how oddly
vulnerable.
He reached out and touched her
cheek. “This is insane.”
Her gaze held his boldly, and she
lifted her chin a notch. “I agree. And I’m staying.”
At last, he shook his head in
defeat. “Very well. Later, then. Now get yourself well out of the line of fire,
before I decide to take you home myself and settle this matter afterward.”
She nodded. “Julian, I—”
She was about to say she loved
him, but he was already striding away.
With a cry of anguish, Mercy
hurried to join the others. She watched in terrible anxiety as Julian and Anton
again positioned themselves back to back and raised their pistols. Going wild
with fear, Mercy started to rush forward again, but this time M’sieur Beaufort
gripped her arm.
“Madame, you must not interfere at
this stage,” he warned in an ominous whisper. “What if you should distract your
husband from his aim? The consequences could be disastrous.”
Mercy swallowed hard, knowing that
André spoke the truth. The two men were determined to fight, and she might well
do more harm than good by interfering.
Thus, she stood on the sidelines,
going mad with helpless frustration as the horrifying vignette unfolded before
her. M’sieur Beaufort gave the signal to begin and called off the paces. The
men strode steadily away from each other, and Mercy’s heart crashed louder in
her chest with each step they took. At the count of ten, when the men were
about sixty feet apart, both turned, cocked their weapons, and aimed. Mercy
stifled a scream.
Julian was the first to fire his
percussion pistol. The loud retort split the silence, and an instant later,
Mercy gasped as she watched Anton totter on his feet . . .
But he did not fall! Within a
second, he regained his balance. Relief flooded her.
But her joy quickly turned to
horror as she watched her cousin grin in vindictive pleasure and aim his own
pistol squarely at Julian’s heart.
“No!” she screamed, lurching
forward. M’sieur Beaufort again caught her arm, even as the second shot
shattered the dawn.
Mercy glanced at Julian in frantic
despair. Her husband was still standing! Indeed, he hadn’t been hit at all! So
great was her relief that the world began to spin around her and she almost
fainted from sheer gratitude.
Wearing a look of alarm, André
Beaufort steadied the young woman on her feet. Thankfully, Mercy’s dizziness
was only fleeting. The instant Beaufort released her, she tore off toward
Julian, her features wild with joy. Then she became distracted as from the
corner of her eye, she caught a brief, harrowing image of Anton staggering. She
froze in her tracks, turning toward her cousin in terrible uncertainty; she
uttered an alarmed cry as she watched him crumple to the ground. Then
compassion forced her to rush to the fallen man.
Though Anton was as pale as death,
he was starting to come to even as Mercy dropped to her knees beside him. He
blinked dazedly and she eyed his oozing shoulder with concern. One side of his
shirt was already soaked with blood.
She squeezed his clammy hand.
“Anton, are you all right?”
“Damned pistol,” he muttered
disgustedly, trying to sit up. “Something wrong with it.”
Mercy had little time to digest
this confusing bit of information as the doctor rushed up. “M’sieur, do not
attempt to sit up,” he ordered Anton. He knelt and yanked open his bag. “It
looks as if you’ve already lost much blood.”
Now Julian, André, and Anton’s
second joined the small group. Julian dispassionately watched his wife hold
Anton’s hand and wipe away her tears. She glanced up at him and their gazes
met.
When Julian saw the anguish and
fear in Mercy’s eyes, he knew all he needed to know. Anger, hurt, and
disappointment lanced his heart. Then, at the sound of the surgeon’s voice, he
tore his gaze away from hers.
“Sir, M’sieur Gerard cannot
continue,” the physician grimly informed Julian. “I presume you will declare
this matter settled?”
Julian stared straight at Mercy
and replied coldly, “The matter is settled.”
He turned on his heel and walked
away from her without even looking back. Mercy felt as if a door had just
slammed shut on her marriage.
***
Mercy rode with Anton back to the
city and helped the doctor settle him at Charity Hospital. While he wasn’t
badly hurt and the bullet had passed straight through his shoulder, the
physician remained concerned. Anton had lost much blood, and there was always
the possibility of infection setting in.
Mercy held Anton’s hand and
endured his moans as his wound was washed and dressed. Afterward, she spent
much of the day by his side, listening patiently to his many complaints. Again
and again, he insisted that the duel had been rigged, that Julian had somehow
tampered with the pistol he had used.
Mercy could not believe this of
her husband, and attributed Anton’s pettiness to his injury. Anton also
insisted that, due to his wound, Mercy would need to accompany him back to Natchez. Somehow Mercy managed to dodge the issue of another trip to Natchez without
actually giving Anton an answer either way. Late in the day, when her cousin at
last fell into a peaceful sleep, she headed home, taking a hansom cab.
Mercy endured the ride in the
drafty, uncomfortable conveyance. She was exhausted, and dreaded the prospect
of confronting Julian. She knew he was furious at her for going to Anton after
the duel. But what choice had she had? Anton was her relative, and he had been
badly wounded.
Besides, she thought grimly, with
any luck, Julian wouldn’t even be home.
Unfortunately, luck was not with
her. To her surprise, she found Julian in the parlor. He was seated on the
settee, sipping a brandy, looking tired and careworn.
He glanced up as she entered the
room, and for a moment, she was tempted to abandon her pride and rush across
the room into his arms. Yet the cynical gleam in his eyes stopped her cold.
He rose. He, too, had felt a
blinding moment of joy when he’d first spotted his wife entering the room. But
his happiness had quickly turned to anger and hurt as he remembered how she’d
spent most of the day—at Anton Gerard’s side. He recalled watching her at the
Dueling Oaks, when she’d held Gerard’s hand so tenderly and wept over his
plight. Something had died in him then. Obviously, his death today would not have
made a whit of difference to her, her protestations to the contrary. It was
obviously Gerard she had wanted to save all along.
“Good evening, Mercy,” he drawled.
“Good evening.” She tore off her
cloak, bonnet, and gloves and threw them onto a chair. “What are you doing
here?”
He feigned amazement. “This is my
home.”
She crossed her arms over her
chest. “A home to which you’ve been a stranger recently. So why appear at this
late hour?”
His eyes narrowed. “Perhaps I felt
we should have a little chat.”
“Now? When we’re both so tired?”
He shrugged. “Why prolong the
uncertainty?” He drew closer, looking her over in her long-sleeved dress of
crisp blue muslin. “So, how fares your lover?”
At once, her hackles were raised.
“Anton is not my lover.”
“Indeed?” he mocked. “He’s the one
you ran to after the duel.”
“He’s the one who was wounded!”
“Are you so sure?” he asked
ironically, downing the rest of his brandy.
She scowled at him. “If you’re
interested,” she muttered, “Anton will live—no thanks to you.”
He laughed mirthlessly. “So our
fine M’sieur Gerard will survive to fight another day. That makes everything so
convenient for you, doesn’t it, my dear?”
Her eyes narrowed. “What do you
mean?”
Julian’s voice rang with chilly
disdain. “He’s asked you to return to Natchez with him, hasn’t he?”
“As a matter of fact, he has.” Her
chin came up. “And he may need my help—considering his wound.” Reeling with
hurt at his coldness, she added spitefully, “I do have my own life—and my own
money—there.”
“Ah yes,” he agreed bitterly. “So
you’ve informed me previously. Well, then,
ma chère
, now you have what
you’ve always wanted, don’t you? Your independence. Obviously, you don’t need
me anymore—have never needed me.”
“And you don’t need me,” Mercy
retorted with equal acrimony. Watching him stride to the sideboard to pour
himself another drink, she chided, “What, Julian? No more threats to force me
to stay?”
He slammed down the brandy
decanter and whirled on her. “You don’t want to stay,” he accused, pointing a
finger at her. “I guess we both know by now that our marriage was a mistake,
that it was based on all the wrong things. Threats, guilt, pity—”
“Never love,” she cried, stepping
forward to face him, despite the hot tears that stung her eyes.
“I suppose not,” he conceded
ironically. “Though we did have a remarkable substitute, didn’t we,
chère
?”
If Mercy hadn’t been so exhausted,
she would have clawed his eyes out. “You’re despicable,” she snapped, turning
and walking from the room.
Mercy packed her bags, leaving
Julian a terse note informing him that she would be staying at St. Mary’s
Convent for the next few days. The nuns accepted her back with obvious
reluctance; while they didn’t criticize her action openly, the message in their
eyes clearly bespoke the fact that they felt her place was with Julian.
If only he wanted her! Mercy still
loved her husband and yearned for him terribly, but he seemed to have no
feeling left in his heart for her.
Mercy did assure Mother Anise that
she would only stay for a week or so. She told the sister she needed the time
to reexamine her life and plan her future. “Think well, child,” the wise sister
advised.
Each day, Mercy went to Charity Hospital to visit Anton. Her cousin’s health was steadily improving, and he
constantly urged her to return with him to Natchez. She hesitated to commit
herself to making the journey, but she also felt reluctant to remain in New Orleans, when Julian seemed so very unwilling to meet her halfway on anything.
As the days passed, Mercy received
no word from her husband, no hint of encouragement. Her spirits sagged and she
bemoaned the gnawing hunger for him that refused to be quelled. She wondered
with wild jealousy if he were again spending his time with Justine. And there
was the disheartening matter of Justine’s second pregnancy—what if Julian was
again the father?
Then something happened which
shook Mercy’s resolve. The dizziness that she’d experienced on the morning of
the duel returned for several days in a row; then, early one morning, she
awakened feeling nauseous. When the same puzzling nausea returned for three
subsequent mornings, Mercy at last realized that she might be pregnant.
Of course she was pregnant! she
decided that propitious morning. She’d been so preoccupied with her troubles
with Julian that she’d neglected to note that her monthly time was late. All at
once, she knew she had conceived that wild, passion-filled night she’d spent
with him in Natchez.
Mercy rubbed her still-flat belly
and blinked back exultant tears. The idea that Julian’s seed had taken root
inside her filled her with fierce joy. Wouldn’t he love a child? A tiny son who
was a miniature of his handsome father? Or perhaps a daughter with her mother’s
green eyes and red hair?
Such was Mercy’s delight that she
was halfway out the door, intent on sharing the news with him, when logic
brought her up short. Would Julian really welcome this baby? Or was he still so
devastated with grief over Arnaud that he wouldn’t want to risk loving another
child?
And what if Justine already
carried his second child?
She also recalled her husband’s
recent cruel accusations regarding Anton, and her doubts multiplied. What if he
again accused her of infidelity, and assumed that Anton was the father of this
baby? Oh, she could not bear it!
Still, she could not withhold news
of pregnancy from him; this child was half his, after all.
Mercy was still agonizing over her
dilemma when Sister Clarabelle came to her room and announced that she had a
visitor—André Beaufort. Startled and confused, Mercy went downstairs to meet
André.
The small, wiry Creole stood as
Mercy entered Mother Anise’s office, nodding respectfully to her.
“M’sieur Beaufort,” she murmured,
offering her hand. “This is a pleasant surprise.”
André bowed, briefly kissing
Mercy’s hand. “Madame Devereux, I must apologize for intruding when you are
obviously on—er—a spiritual retreat here. However, I must speak with you on a
matter of great urgency.”
A smile tugged at Mercy’s lips at
André’s chivalrous tact. “I see. Won’t you sit?”
The two took seats in the matching
French armchairs flanking Mother Anise’s desk. André coughed nervously. Mercy
asked, “How did you know that I was here?”
He avoided her eye. “Your husband
mentioned it.”
“I see.” Her voice grew noticeably
cooler. “You’re here on Julian’s behalf, then?”
“
Oui
, though he did not ask
me to come,” André replied, shifting in his chair. “I’ve come entirely of my
own accord.”
“Have you?”
“
Oui
, madame.” He cleared
his throat noisily. “I’ve debated this matter endlessly, and I finally decided
that I must discuss it with you.”
“Discuss what?”
His reluctant gaze met hers. “The
duel.”
Mercy couldn’t repress a startled
laugh. “The duel? What about it?”
“To be specific, have you not wondered
why your husband allowed himself to almost be killed that day?”
“Allowed? What are you saying?”
André leaned toward her. “Madame,
Julian Devereux is the best marksman I have ever known. If he aims for a man’s
heart, I assure you, he does not miss.”
Mercy felt all the color drain
from her face. “Then you’re saying that he—”
“I’m saying that out of deference
to you, your husband aimed for your cousin’s shoulder and not for any vital
organ.”
Mercy’s eyes grew huge. “Then
Julian risked—”
“He risked death itself by not
shooting to kill,” André finished. “Had M’sieur Gerard not missed his aim on
his subsequent round, your husband would now be dead.” As Mercy gasped, he
added grimly, “Also, according to the
Code Duello
, your husband, as the
affronted party, had every right to demand additional satisfaction after the
first shedding of blood. Under the circumstances, he could not have failed to
dispatch M’sieur Gerard on a second round. However, as you’re well aware,
Julian declared the matter settled—thus sparing your cousin.”
Mercy shook her head, her
expression stunned. “And Anton claimed that Julian had tampered with his
dueling pistol.”
André laughed dryly. “That would
have been impossible, madame. You see, although the dueling set belongs to your
husband, M’sieur Gerard was given first choice of the weapons. Need I say
more?” He shrugged. “Actually, I am not surprised that M’sieur Gerard missed
his aim at a distance of sixty feet, especially since he was wounded on his
firing side.”
Trying to absorb these
revelations, Mercy walked over to the window. Here, all the while, she had
assumed Julian was the villain in the duel, when ultimately, he had risked his
own life to spare Anton’s. Why? Her husband was certainly a strange and
baffling man.
She turned, perplexed, to André.
“Why are you telling me these things?”
He stood with hat in hand.
“Because your husband needs you, madame.”
Tears stung her eyes. “Does he?”
“Indeed. He spends much of his
time in seclusion at his home—drinking and brooding. He has utterly neglected
his duties at the Exchange—and frankly, madame,
I
need him right now.
I’m hoping you will go home and bring him to his senses.”
Mercy tried to swallow the hard
lump in her throat. “But if he needs me, why hasn’t he told me?”
The Creole smiled kindly. “Madame,
while it may not always seem so to the fairer sex, a man is a very proud and
sensitive beast. And the fact of the matter is, following the duel, you turned
away from your husband in favor of another.”
“B-but my cousin was wounded.”
He held up a hand. “I realize
this. Nevertheless, you spent most of the day with M’sieur Gerard, even though
his wound was not mortal. Think of how your husband must have felt, madame.”
“After he risked death for me.”
“Indeed.”
She smiled gratefully at André and
again offered him her hand. “Thank you for coming to tell me these things,
m’sieur.”
He shook her hand warmly and
bowed. “You will go see him then?”
She nodded. “Of course.”
***
Mercy returned to her room and
dressed in her finest fall frock of sapphire-blue watered silk. She curled her
hair with a curling iron and styled it down about her shoulders, as Julian
liked it.
She mulled over her amazing
conversation with André Beaufort. She realized that throughout her marriage to
Julian, she’d often thought of him as cold and angry, when in reality, he had
been hurt and needy.
A proud and sensitive beast
,
André had called him. She knew now that her husband was certainly that, and
that she had hurt him terribly by turning away at the duel. She’d just been too
blinded by her own wounded pride and chafed feelings to see this before,
especially when Julian had lashed out at her afterward. Now there was no doubt
in her mind that she must go to Julian, that he did need her desperately.
Of course, there was still the
matter of Justine and her pregnancy. Yet if Julian was still sleeping with her,
why would he spend all his time shut away at his town house?
Then, too, hadn’t she been wrong
the last time she had made an assumption about her husband and Justine—so wrong
that she had hurt him grievously? What if Julian had been telling her the truth
all along? What if he and Justine were, indeed, just friends? Wasn’t it
possible that Justine had found someone else by now?
Her toilette completed, Mercy
gathered a light wool shawl, bonnet, gloves, and reticule, and left the parish
house.
Outside on the banquette, she had
Old Hugo hail her a hansom cab. She directed the driver to take her first to Charity Hospital. She had some business to finish with Anton before she went to her
husband.
At the hospital, Anton smiled in
pleasant surprise as Mercy crossed the sunny ward toward his bed. “Mercy! I’ve
wonderful news. The doctor is releasing me tomorrow.”
She paused at his bedside and
touched his hand. Anton had gained weight and was beginning to display the
vigor of returning health.
“I’m so happy for you,” she said
sincerely.
“I’m impatient to get out of here.
Then I’ll book us passage back to Natchez, and—”
“No, Anton,” Mercy cut in firmly.
“I’m not going back with you.”
“What?” he cried. “But—”
“I’m staying with my husband,” she
informed him just as adamantly. “If he’ll have me.”
“But you can’t!” he exclaimed, his
expression crestfallen. “I’ll need your help on the journey—”
“Not so,” Mercy cut in with a
shake of her head. “I’ve already spoken with your doctor, and he told me you’ll
be in fine shape to make the journey alone in a few more days.”
Anton threw up his hands in
despair.
“Go home, Anton,” Mercy told him
gently. “Tell my grandparents that I’ll come to visit them, but my place is
here with my husband.” Absorbing his devastated expression, she quickly added,
“And there’s something else.” She flashed him a rueful smile. “Assuming my
husband does not toss me out on my ear, I want you to have my mother’s trust.”
“You what?” he asked
incredulously.
“It’s more yours than mine,” she
explained, “since you’re the one who has stood by my grandparents all these
years and helped them with their affairs.”
Mercy was touched to actually see
tears in Anton’s eyes. “My dear, I don’t know what to say,” he murmured.
She squeezed his hand. “Say you’ll
go home and be happy. It’s all I could want for you.”
He smiled. “I’ll try my best.”
She leaned over, kissing his
forehead. “Good-bye, cousin.”
“Good-bye, dear.” He grinned.
“Tell M’sieur Devereux for me that he’s a very fortunate man.”
“As is his wife. Wish me luck,
Anton.”
“Oh, believe me, dear, I will,” he
replied feelingly.
Watching her leave, Anton shook
his head. He couldn’t believe his cousin had just promised him her fortune.
Since he’d been wounded, he had
had much time to reconsider his life and his motives. Now he found it truly
ironic that, in the end, all his schemes and machinations had been for naught.
Ultimately, Mercy’s generosity of spirit had brought him success where his own
manipulations had failed. There was a lesson to be learned here, he was sure .
. .
***
Mercy found the town house on Royal Street eerily quiet, the servants nowhere in sight. She walked from room to room,
searching for Julian.
She found him in his study. She paused
in the doorway, her heart pounding with wild longing.
He was asleep, slumped on the
narrow settee, his muscled form outlined in a beam of sunshine, his boots
propped on the tea table. His face was heavily bearded, his shirt rumpled and
hanging agape. He looked so forlorn and vulnerable that her heart twisted with
love for him.
She went to the settee and boldly
sat next to him, drinking in his dusky male scent as she wrapped her arms
around his neck. He began to stir as she stretched upward and gently kissed his
lips.
Julian’s eyes blinked open and his
arms moved to encircle her. Her pulse pounded as she watched joy flicker across
his dark gaze. Then his expression grew shuttered and proud, his brow deeply
furrowed. He looked like a very handsome and fierce beast just awakened from a
lengthy slumber.
She forced herself to smile up at
him. “I’m home.”
“You’re home.” His deep voice
shook as he repeated her words, but his guarded expression did not waver.
She reached up and began buttoning
his shirt, watching him swallow convulsively at the touch of her fingers on his
bare chest.
“André Beaufort came to see me,”
she explained. “He told me you needed me.”
“Did he?” With trembling hands,
Julian nudged his wife off the settee. He stood and walked over to his desk,
picking up the brandy decanter.
“Julian, please don’t have a drink
now,” she implored. “Talk to me.”
He set down the decanter and
turned to her with glittering eyes.
She crossed the room to face him.
“Julian, why did you spare Anton at the duel?”
He laughed dryly. “So André told
you?”
“He did.”
Julian shrugged. “I spared your
illustrious cousin because I want your happiness,
chère
,” he informed
her cynically. “In fact, why aren’t you with your precious Anton now? He is the
one you ran to, after all.”