Bride of a Stranger (Classic Gothics Collection) (8 page)

Claire was just easing her arms into a fresh peignoir when Octavia swept into the room. “Charming, I’m sure. But I would like to know who gave you permission to remove your bandages for a bath? I will have to wrap you up again, you know. Couldn’t you have had Rachel give you a refreshing rub with eau de cologne? You should not be up. I am persuaded Justin will not like it.”

“What business is it of—” she began, then flushed as Octavia raised an eyebrow. “But surely it cannot matter,” she protested. “He has said that he will carry me out onto the back gallery this afternoon.”

“The man has no more sense than a moonling. You should lie quietly for at least a month.”

“Can’t I lie quietly outside? I am so very tired of this room.”

“An admission you should not make, my dear. All brides should profess to be reluctant to leave their confinement. It is expected.”

Claire stared at her, caught by the warning tones in her voice and a trace of sternness. But Octavia avoided her eyes, and, with a competent and domineering air that was faintly annoying, whisked her into bed, where she rebandaged her ribs to a tightness that left her panting but did relieve the pain.

The other woman instructed Rachel in clearing the room, twitched the covers into place, handed her a book, one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s romances translated into the French, then paused in the act of leaving.

“I didn’t come to nursemaid you, though I am happy to do so. I came to warn you to expect a visit from Helene, and possibly, if she can screw up the courage, Berthe.”

“Oh?”

“By all rights your husband should have conducted his mother to meet you himself. It would have been much more
comme il faut
. But he will not, and Helene can no longer conquer her curiosity. I overheard her saying to Berthe that a visit of condolence would be a polite gesture and a satisfactory solution under the circumstances, and so I am sure the royal visit is pending.”

“I am glad you told me. The prospect is frightening enough without being caught at a disadvantage by surprise.”

“Oh, you need not fear Helene or Berthe—” she hesitated as if considering the wisdom of what she was about to say, then a resolute expression passed over her face and she raised her chin. “But perhaps I should warn you: Justin and his mother are not on the best of terms. You would do well to take care. You would not wish, I am sure, to be caught in the middle of their quarrel. Just remember that it does not concern you—you need not fear that it does. It concerns what has happened in the past. It need not trouble you unless you allow it to or unless you allow yourself to become a pawn in their battle.”

“But I don’t understand. Why should they be at war with one another?”

“You must wait for Justin to tell you. He will, I imagine, when he is ready for you to know. I cannot interfere. Put it from your mind. If I were you I would think well before I asked at all. There is time enough and more to learn the black heart that lies at the center of the
fleur de la pois.
”

The
fleur de la pois
—the flower of the pea—the pick of the lot: that had been the name of the plantation before it became Sans Songe. What had Octavia meant? Claire pondered it after the older woman had gone. She did not know, but it seemed to be sound advice that the older woman had given her. She was in no hurry to learn the dark secrets of her unwanted husband.

Because of the custom of the five days, Claire had had no visitors to her bedroom. Now that was changed. True to Octavia’s prediction, toward the middle of the morning there was a knock on the door and before she could call
entrez
, two women stepped into the room.

“I bid you a good morning,” the woman in the lead said, and Claire, hearing the slow, rather bored tones, did not need the introduction to know that this was Justin’s mother. She was tall for a woman, and painfully thin, with delicate features in a heart-shaped face and enormous, purple-shadowed dark eyes. At one time she might have been a beauty, but now there was a ravaged look about her face. Her hair was fading into gray and her apparently permanent state of tension could be seen in the taut tendons that corded her neck and the backs of her slender hands. But though unhappiness had marked her, she had at least a visible personality. That was more than could be said for the woman in black who trailed into the room behind her.

“My sister-in-law, Berthe. Her husband and mine were brothers. As you can readily see, however, she is a widow—and I am certain that you know that the blame for that state lies at the door of my son.”

The woman called Berthe was a colorless nonentity with watery brown eyes surrounded by such pale lashes that she seemed to have none. Her hair was stuffed under a cap of black muslin edged with black ribbon with long streamers hanging down her back. Her high-necked, long-sleeved dress was of black sarsenet with an empire waist and wide skirts over several layers of petticoats that gave her a ludicrous appearance of width, not helped by her tendency toward plumpness.

Her pasty face turned a shade paler as she gasped in a thin voice, “Helene, you should not say such things, not to your son’s bride. It—it is shocking.”

“But true, and if she doesn’t know it now she is sure to hear it eventually. I find it hard to believe that she could be ignorant of it.”

“I—I knew of the unfortunate incident, of course.”

“There! I told you. Unpleasant things have a way of coming to our attention.”

Searching her mind for a change of topic, Claire bethought herself of the duties of one receiving guests.

“Won’t you please sit down, there in the slipper chairs if you could pull them closer? And perhaps you would like a cup of coffee and a few small cakes?”

“That is very kind of you,” Helene said, taking her seat, “but you need not trouble yourself. I have only this moment finished my morning coffee and I never indulge in sweets before dinner.” She let her eyes flick in the direction of short, plump Berthe.

“No, no, nothing for me,” Berthe said hurriedly.

An unpleasant smile touched Helene’s mouth, then she raised her eyes and looked around the room. “I hope you are comfortable here, and that you have everything that you desire. If not, you have only to ask and it will be brought to you—within reason, of course. This is a nice room; I have always thought it one of the best in the house. My husband and I used it, you know, when we were first married. It has been close to ten years since was last in it. Unbelievable, isn’t it?”

“The room is—very nice,” Claire said, choosing the one thing in what Helene had said with which she could agree.

“And Rachel, she is acceptable?”

“Oh, yes, she is surprisingly well trained, considering that she was a parlor maid and not versed in tending to ladies.”

“I am glad she pleases you. I chose her for you myself.”

“Th-thank you,” Claire said, glad that she had expressed approval of the girl. “I am most grateful. I am sure I don’t know what I would have done without her.”

Berthe, who had been very quiet, spoke suddenly. “Rachel is a sister to my girl.”

“I didn’t know. She never speaks of her family.” “Which is as it should be. I cannot abide a chatterer,” Helene stated.

Claire, who would have preferred a friendlier personality in her servant, forbore to disagree with her.

“As pleasant as this room may be, I am sure you are becoming weary of it. As soon as you are able to be up and about we must go for a drive in my carriage and show you a little more of our holdings here.”

“I would enjoy that. I have grown very curious about the country around the house, and about where Justin goes and what he does when he is away.”

“You haven’t questioned him about his movements? I see you are beginning to know my son,” Helene said with a dry note in her voice.

“Helene—” Berthe protested. But her sister-in-law barely glanced at her.

“And as to where he goes and what he does,
machère
, perhaps I should tell you before someone else does—”

“Helene!”

“Don’t bleat, Berthe!”

“But you don’t know—”

“With the Leroux men it is not necessary to know, to see with your own eyes. You of all people should understand that, Berthe.”

“I beg you—” It was barely a whisper, but in that softly breathed sound there was such anguish that Claire wanted somehow to help that plain woman in the black dress. There was nothing she could do except look away from the pale, trembling lips and the small, lashless eyes that glittered with tears and something else she could not quite define.

“What I wished to inform you of,” Helene’s emotionless voice went on, “is that my son’s quadroon has been seen in the vicinity. I feel personally that it is better in cases like this to be forewarned—and I am not without experience.”

Claire stared at her. What could she say? A part of her greeted the news with apathy, but another part felt a shaft of pure jealousy—not, she assured herself, because of any concern for her husband, but for the security of her position as his wife, a position, under their religious beliefs, that she must hold until death.

“Your concern does you credit, I’m sure—” she began, and then stopped as Helene sprang to her feet, her gaze fixed on the cat that had just walked in at the partially open french window from the gallery.

“Put that animal out! I cannot bear cats. How Octavia can stand to have him in her room is more than I will ever understand. I loathe him, sneaking, slinking creature. One never knows where he will be next!”

It was the first time that Claire had seen the great black cat since the night he had frightened her, but now she was grateful for the diversion. She made no move to evict him as he leaped upon her bed and curled himself into a ball.

“There are a great many people who cannot abide cats,” she said, smiling a little. “For myself, I like them well enough. They are clean animals, and quiet.” She glanced at Berthe and found that lady also staring at the cat, a peculiar expression on her face, half antipathy, half thoughtfulness.

“Please yourself,” Helene said tautly. “But don’t let him scratch you. I have always heard that cats carry poison in their claws.”

The two ladies did not linger much longer, and when the door had closed behind them, Claire reached out and slowly began to scratch between the cat’s ears. He stretched, pressing against her hand, and she smiled and smoothed his fur, thinking.

Why had Helene told her about Belle-Marie? What was her purpose? She doubted it was the one given. What was the thing that lay between Helene and her son that caused her to speak of him with such bitterness? Claire was almost certain that her mother-in-law was disappointed in her reaction to her news. Had she expected that Claire would be shocked and hurt, or possibly, jealous? Was that what she had wanted?

Justin did not return to the house for the midday meal, and Claire ate alone except for the great black cat with whom she shared her dinner. She had little appetite, and the cat would keep Octavia and the cook in the kitchen from feeling hurt because she had rejected their carefully planned meal. Then, while she should have been resting during the long afternoon, she lay staring at a shadow box filled with flowers made of human hair that hung on the opposite wall. Her book, with its improbable characters and happenings, no longer appealed. The room was stuffy, her mattress hard, her two pillows too soft so that the hard roll of the bolster was too firm beneath her neck. The tightness of the bandage around her chest irritated her and she shifted, acknowledging with a sigh that her ribs ached.

She missed having someone to talk to, someone near while she slept, she told herself. That was all.

Still, when Justin stepped through the door she sat up straighter and summoned a smile. For the moment she had relegated Belle-Marie to the back of her mind.

He stood for a moment, letting his eyes become accustomed to the dark room after the sunlight, and in that moment of temporary blindness, Claire saw that he looked tired, with lines of grimness about his mouth.

“Good afternoon,” she said, and then gripped her hands together as she saw a shadow of annoyance cross his face. It was much too formal a greeting, but what would be the correct address to a husband who was nearly a stranger—and one who might be coming from his mistress?

“Why aren’t you resting?” he asked, walking forward to stand beside the bed.

“I couldn’t sleep, and as for resting, I have done nothing else for this week.”

“You are ready then, I take it, to get up?”

“If I may,” Claire answered, pleating the sheet between her fingers, tinglingly aware of his closeness and the warmth and the fresh smell of the outdoors that emanated from him.