Creole Hearts (6 page)

Madelaine gritted her teeth. She mustn't say anything, certainly not the furious words that welled up in her. She wasn't angry with Guy now, but with Philippe. Tears gathered in her eyes. Oh, Philippe, she thought, how can you be so cruel?

The next day Guy moved them back to La Belle. "I've been gone far too long," he said. "Fortunately the sugar grinding went well, even though I wasn't here to supervise."

Day after day Madelaine rode to the secret spot where she and Philippe had arranged to meet, but he was never there. She had no way of knowing if she'd missed him by a few minutes or if he'd never come at all.

He can't love Annette Louise, she assured herself. He loves me. Me!

At the plantation house she was sulky and restless.

"
Mon Dieu
, Madelaine, can you settle to nothing?" Guy asked her. "Where is your embroidery, your fancy work?"

Upstairs, Odalie took her to task. "You be sickening for something, look like, the way you be acting."

"I'm perfectly fine," Madelaine snapped.

"Seem like you ought to smile and be glad your brother be taking a bride soon. She be company."

Madelaine sighed. "Senalda thinks I'm too impetuous. She plans to change that, I'm sure."

"Seem like you be better off do you think about getting your own self married."

Madelaine bit her lip. "I do think about it. The trouble is . . ."

Her words trailed off. Philippe's name couldn't be shared with anyone at La Belle, not even Odalie, whom she trusted with everything else.

Odalie nodded wisely. "That no good."

"He's not a no good!" Madelaine balled her fists and glared at Odalie, then turned and ran from her room, down the stairs, outside and around the house to the stables.

"Ancin, have Empress saddled," she ordered.

Ancin shot a glance at her morning dress and her uncovered hair but said nothing. Instead of directing one of the stable hands, he fetched the saddle himself as Madelaine watched him impatiently.

Ancin led her mare from the stall and helped her into the saddle, frowning when he saw she wore house slippers instead of riding boots. "You do be careful," he told her.

"I'm sick and tired of being careful," she said over her shoulder as Empress trotted off.

The March day was overcast, promising rain. She rode along an avenue between rows of live oaks whose branches were draped with long moss, turned between two of the huge trunked trees and made her way along a path leading toward the bayou. As she neared the water, a blue heron flapped up with a squawk of protest, long legged and ungainly until he was airborne, then a graceful flyer. Something splashed in the bayou water—perhaps the frog the heron had been waiting to spear with his long sharp bill.

Madelaine took a deep breath of the damp air that hinted of decaying vegetation. Today he'd be there, he had to be there. She longed for his touch, to feel his lips on hers, to experience the wild rush of fire in her body when he held her. She closed her eyes as Empress trotted along the bank of the bayou. Philippe, oh, Philippe, I love you so ...

She rode through the tupelo trees, beginning to green with spring, around the thick growth of willows and on to where a solitary camphor tree spread out its heavy branches. Past the camphor tree and—but there he was! Madelaine let out her breath and spurred her mare.

"Philippe!" she cried.

He turned and took off his hat and she gasped to see red hair glowing in the grey morning. John Kellogg waited for her, not Philippe Roulleaux.

Madelaine reined in Empress so abruptly the mare reared onto her hind legs. Madelaine controlled her, patting the horse's neck in apology. "What are you doing here?" she demanded of John Kellogg.

"I've been hoping you'd come this way by chance," he said.

"I don't believe you."

He smiled one sidedly. "You'd be right not to. I confess I've been watching you ride this way. I tried to call on you at your plantation house but your brother told me you didn't care to see me again. I wanted to hear it from you."

She stared at him. "You came to see me?"

He nodded.

"Guy forbids me to encourage an
Americain
," she said bluntly, not forgiving him for being here instead of Philippe.

"I can hardly help being what I am."

She saw his wry grin and felt a tug of response. She couldn't resist John Kellogg's smile. "I don't always agree with my brother," she told him.

"Good. May I help you down?" He dismounted and advanced toward her.

Madelaine slid from Empress' back before he could reach her.

"This doesn't mean I'll see you again," she warned, walking away from him to a pond where the flat green leaves of water lilies lay like stepping stones to the far side. "There's swamp all through here," she said. "Quicksand. You took a chance when you came this way."

"I felt lucky today."

"Do you have a girl of your own? An
Americain
girl?"

He turned from her to gaze at the pond. "Not anymore," he said.

"But you did once?"

He nodded, still not glancing her way. "She died of yellow fever," he said. "We meant to marry.”

"I'm sorry."

He moved toward her suddenly, grasping her shoulders before she could back away. "I can't stop thinking of you," he said. "I don't mean to frighten you but my heart tells me you're the only woman I can ever love."

Madelaine stood still, stunned by the intensity of his words, his bright gaze fixing her in place. His hands were warm through the thin muslin of her gown.

"I—I don't. . ." she began.

"You don't need to say anything. I had to tell you. I wanted to court you properly, to come calling, but your brother made it clear I wasn't welcome."

Madelaine stared into his eyes, her breath quickening. Her blood seemed to race in her veins, infusing her with liquid heat as his face came closer and closer until his lips met hers. For a moment she melted into his arms, her entire being responding to his kiss, then she jerked back, horrified. What was she doing?

She trembled when he released her. "Go away," she cried. "I never want to see you again." Turning on her heel, she ran to Empress, scrambled into the saddle and urged the mare ahead.

"Wait," he called. "Please . . ."

"No," she said. "No, never." She kicked the horse's flank and Empress broke into a lope. But though she fled from John Kellogg, she couldn't escape from the memory of how he'd made her feel. How dare he do this to her?

I hate him, she told herself. It's Philippe I love. Only Philippe.

Chapter
6

A week before Shrove Tuesday, before Mardi Gras, the two story white columned stuccoed brick mansion at La Belle was filled to overflowing with friends. In the garconniere, the guest house to the south of the mansion, men were forced to double up. House slaves rushed about serving the guests and putting the final touches to the wedding decorations. Guy and Senalda had been married before the altar of the St. Louis Cathedral, Father Antoine presiding, and now everyone was at the manor house for the wedding reception.

"La Belle never look so nice, not for long years," Odalie told Madelaine. "Mademoiselle Senalda be a beauty, that be for sure." She shook her head. "Got to be saying Madame to her now, I be forgetting."

Madelaine said nothing. Senalda Gabaldon La Branche was a beautiful woman. Among the dark Creoles, her blondeness made a sharp contrast, magnifying her attractiveness. Her eyes were every bit as blue as the spring sky and her figure was stunning.

I wish I liked her more, Madelaine thought. Can it be my fault? Am I so difficult? Guy tells me I am, but he’s teasing—at least I used to

believe he was. Senalda seems to hold me off or else treat me like a child. She can’t be very much older than I am. She doesn’t let me get close enough to her to be able to like her.

"You be a pretty sight in that yellow," Odalie said. "Maybe soon you be smiling instead of looking so cross."

Obediently, Madelaine turned up the corners of her mouth, but she'd never felt less like smiling. I wish it could have been me, she thought. Philippe and I before the altar at St. Louis' receiving the sacrament that made us man and wife, arm in arm at the reception here at La Belle...

Yet she didn't begrudge Guy his happiness. Impulsively, she hurried from her bedroom down the stairs, searching for her brother amid the throng of wedding guests. He stood beside a radiant Senalda, smiling and talking to the Lafrenieres. Madelaine eased in on Guy's other side and put her arm through his. When he looked down at her she rose on her toes and kissed his cheek.

"I'm truly happy for you," she whispered into his ear.

He put his arm about her, hugging her. “She’s so lovely," he said, his eyes on Senalda. "How can I help but be the happiest man in the world?"

"Certainly the luckiest," Andre Lafreniere said.

Guy nodded. He was lucky to have won Senalda as his wife when every young man in New Orleans had wanted her. And tonight— tonight she'd be completely his, they'd be one.

He was scarcely conscious of Madelaine leaving his side, or of talking to the many who came to offer good wishes. Nothing seemed real except Senalda beside him. His wife.

Although Guy tried to limit the toasts he drank, he could feel the wine muzz his head by the time he climbed the stairs behind his bride. The candles on the brass and crystal chandelier cast a soft glow over her fair hair so that she almost seemed to be wearing a halo.

Guy smiled. A saint for a wife wouldn't do, not at all. A memory of Aimee's golden body slipped into his mind and he shook his head, pushing the thought away. Now that Senalda was his, he'd need no placee.

In the hall below, the last of the guests sang and tinkled bells in a gentle serenade as Guy and Senalda made their way up the staircase.

There'd be others, he knew, waiting beneath the windows of the bedroom, but since it was March they'd be able to keep the windows shut. He grinned, thinking of all the times he'd been among the ones outside.

Senalda preceded him through the door to the bedroom and walked so swiftly toward the dressing room at the far end, traditionally the one La Branche wives used, that he hadn't time to take her in his arms as he'd intended to do, to kiss her and tell her how much he loved her.

Guy shrugged off his disappointment. No doubt she was nervous, not quite certain what to expect of the marriage bed.

He strode to the dressing room at this end, always the room of the master of La Belle, unbuttoning his waistcoat as he went. He flung off his clothes and draped a satin lined silk robe over his shoulders as he padded barefoot toward the high white and gilt bed with its carved posters and elaborate canopy.

Senalda wasn't in the bed. He stood beside it, savoring his anticipation, yet impatient, the wine singing in his veins, fueling his desire.

By the time she emerged from the dressing room, he'd begun to wonder if something was wrong. She walked slowly toward him, her diaphanous white robe drifting behind her.

"You look like an angel," he said huskily.

As she came closer he saw that her face was set, her eyes guarded. She turned her gaze away from his naked body.

"The lamp," she said breathlessly. "Put out the lamp."

"But I want to see you. You're so lovely . . ."

"Put out the lamp," she repeated, her voice rising.

In the darkness she was a dim white figure, like a ghost. He touched her arm and felt her withdrawal.

"Don't be afraid," he murmured. "I'm your husband, there's nothing to be afraid of."

He drew her toward him, intoxicated by the gardenia scent she wore, took her into his arms and kissed her. She stood rigid for a minute before she answered the pressure of his lips, relaxing against him.

A long bang shattered the silence, a gunshot. Another, then another. Bells clanged, voices shouted.

Senalda flinched and pulled away from him.

"It's but the charivari," he assured her. "They saw the lights go out and so they

thought--”

"How barbaric! They act like peasants."

"It's merely a custom," he said soothingly. "Come to the balcony with me and wave to them. They'll soon go away if we do."

"Tanguy, I'm in my night robe. I won't have them staring at me."

"It's dark, no one can see more than is proper. Come." He put an arm about her waist and urged her toward the double glass paned doors that led to a small balcony.

Senalda resisted him. "I won't be treated like a servant girl."

Guy sighed. "Sweetheart, everyone respects you."

"You aren't even—you aren't clothed," she protested.

He slid his arm into the sleeves of his robe and tied the sash. "I am now," he said, damping down his growing annoyance. "We'll go to the door." Despite himself, the words came forth as an order.

Senalda said nothing, walking with him to the doors, waiting while he pulled the curtains aside, opened one, then stepped onto the balcony.

A cheer went up.

Senalda slipped from the room to stand by his side and the group below shouted their approval.

"Good night," Guy called down to them.

"Sweet dreams," a man's voice called back. Others laughed.

Guy led Senalda inside and closed the glass door. He guided her back to the bed. He touched the front of her robe, feeling for the buttons. She pushed his hand away.

"
Cherie
" he said, "certainly you don't intend to sleep in your robe."

"I'll take it off myself. You—you get into bed first." Her voice quivered.

He smiled in the darkness. A maiden's fears.

He'd be loving and gentle. Guy took off his own robe and slid naked between the sheets.

Long moments later he felt Senalda climb into bed on the far side. He waited a few seconds before he moved close to her and touched her.

"My darling," he whispered, "my love."

When he tried to caress her breast he found she still wore a thin night shift. "You won't need this," he told her as he began to pull it up her body.

"Don't," she begged, clutching at his hand. "Do what you must—but don't undress me."

"It's all right," he said. "I'm your husband, Senalda. I want to feel your loveliness next to me with no cloth between. Trust me, cherie."

"No, no, I want my gown left on. It's a sin. The other—that's a husband's right but I won't be naked."

Guy sighed. The exhilaration of the wine was gone, leaving him with a slight headache. Have patience, he counseled himself. Gently he slipped his hand under her shift and touched skin that was silkier than the finest fabric from China. He ran his finger along the curve of her hip and along her side until he felt the soft roundness of her breast.

Senalda, rigid, submitted to his caresses.

He leaned over and put his lips to hers. She gave no answering pressure. He let the tip of his tongue trace the outline of her lips, hearing a small sound of—was it protest?

Guy pulled back. "What is it?" he asked. “We’ve kissed many times before and always you clung to me, felt pleasure in my embrace, at least I thought you did."

"It was different then," she said.

"But how?"

"I wasn't your wife. A kiss was permitted but nothing more. Now . . ." She fell silent.

"Has my kiss changed so much since yesterday?"

"You want to do more. What a husband does."

"Well yes, Senalda. We're married in the eyes of God and man. It's no sin to love one's wife." Her gardenia scented flesh so close to him made him burn with desire. He laid his palm on her cheek. "I'll show you that love between a man and woman is a heavenly gift, a wonderful feeling."

"I know it's my duty," she said. "I won't refuse you."

Guy rose on one elbow to run a hand over her shoulder down across the wispy cloth, pushing the shift up until he could touch her bared thighs. Her caressed her slowly, finally slipping his hand into the soft warmness between her legs. He heard her draw in her breath. Carefully, he caressed her, clenching his teeth against his own mounting need.

He pushed the shift higher, putting his lips to her breast, his tongue circling her nipple. She hadn't relaxed, he could feel her tenseness. He tried to be patient, to go on touching her, caressing her, but he could no longer control his desire and with a groan he pushed her legs farther apart and thrust himself into her.

She screamed.

He wanted to draw back, knowing he was hurting her, but it was too late. He couldn't stop, but could only hold her to him and thrust within her until his overwhelming need was satisfied.

Afterwards, he tried to comfort her as she lay sobbing next to him, but she turned her back and in a few minutes he fell asleep. He woke in the night and reached for her, but when he felt her flinch from him he moved away from her to sleep again.

In the morning she wasn't in the bed when he woke. He sat up. "Senalda?"

She came out of the dressing room wearing a blue velvet robe, a hairbrush in her hand and smiled at him as though the night had never happened.

I'll make it up to her, he told himself. The next time I'll be more patient. I won't hurt her again.

But as the days and nights passed, Guy found that no matter what he did, no matter how hard he tried to give Senalda pleasure, she could only view the marriage bed as a duty. And a disagreeable one, at that.

In April, after a night of gambling with friends, when he found himself heading up the rue des Ramparts at dawn, he hesitated only a second, shrugged and went on.

Aimee stared at him when he opened her door. Her peach robe had been hastily thrown on and her eyes were still drowsy.

"Guy!" she cried, running to him and flinging herself into his arms, clinging to him, laughing and crying at the same time. She smelled not of gardenias but of woman.

He kissed her, finding her full lips warmly responsive. He picked her up and carried her into the bedroom.

Her body was strange under his hands, yet only when he felt the roundness of her belly did he remember the child. But she wanted him, her eyes, her lips, her body told him. He made love to her and it was like coming home.

Guy visited Aimee often after that. She offered him the physical love that Senalda wouldn't or couldn't give him. Though he adored his beautiful blonde wife, he began to treat her more casually.

Aimee's son, Denis, was born on July Fourth, a day the Americans celebrated with fireworks, music and speeches as the birth day of their country. His country. Denis' country.

Guy found himself caught in the festive spirit of the day. After all, the child might be his and despite being born a little early and small, he was a healthy, beautiful boy. Besides, it was only polite to help the Americans mark this twenty eighth anniversary.

Still, he didn't really feel the United States was his country. He didn't think of himself or his friends as Americans. On July fourteenth, Bastille Day, the Creoles had their own celebration, one that meant more to Guy than the Fourth.

The remainder of the year sped by. Guy assisted General Wilkinson in his dealings with the Spaniards over a contested strip of land on the southwestern border between the Louisiana Territory and Spanish held Texas.

Guy admired and had confidence in the general until late in the year when a man named Aaron Burr came to New Orleans and spent long hours in conference with General Wilkinson. None of the general's aides, Guy included, were made privy to what was discussed.

The coffee houses buzzed with gossip, rumors that the general was a secret spy for Spain, that he was plotting with Burr to form a western empire of Louisiana and Mexico.