Ever My Love: A Saga of Slavery and Deliverance (The Plantation Series Book 2) (38 page)

Marianne was restless. Bored. Lonely. She wandered through
the empty darkened rooms of the big house, unwilling to go to bed.

Where was he now? At some gaming house? In some other woman’s
arms? She stared at the deserted street. She could go looking for him. He was in
the Old Quarter somewhere. Smoking a cigar. Laughing. Missing her? She could march
into the game room of the Blue Ribbon, ignore the stares and whispers, and
demand . . . Her imaginings always dissolved at the moment of confrontation.
What could she say? There was nothing she could do. If he wanted her, he knew
where she was.

Marianne climbed the stairs to the second landing. Adam’s
door was ajar, the lamp burning low. She pushed the door open. He wasn’t there,
and his bed had not been slept in. The crystal paper weight gleaming in the
light caught her eye, two letters propped behind it. One for Father, one for
her. With growing unease, Marianne fingered the heavy paper.

With trembling hands, she tore the seal and read
her brother’s farewell. “What does he mean to do?” she whispered. The river?
His pistols? Where were his pistols? “I should have been helping him, not
hating him all these weeks!” She grabbed the letter addressed to Father and
tore it open. She quickly scanned through the apology – a duel. He was
reclaiming his honor with a duel!

The sun was coming up. They might already be at the Dueling
Oaks in the park. She raced out of the room to Father’s door. She pounded on it
and without waiting tossed the letters on the floor for her father to find.
Then she ran down the stairs in her dancing shoes, heedless of the golden gown
sweeping behind her.

She grabbed her cape from the chair where she’d tossed it
and let herself out the back. In the stable, the slaves had unharnessed the
carriage and gone to bed. Marianne saddled her horse and found she could not
mount wearing the hoop under her dress. She could not stop to undress, to
untie, to unhook. She found a chisel on the tool bench and broke through the
tapes holding the hoops to her waist. The dress dragging the ground, she
gathered the skirts, climbed on a bench, and mounted the horse.

In the dawn light, Marianne galloped through the deserted
streets toward the infamous field where men sacrificed their lives for honor.

The winter sun still below the treetops, Yves arrived at the
appointed grounds. Adam, Roland Bonheur, and the surgeon waited at the edge of
the open meadow.

Yves tied his horse to a low branch and retrieved his sword
case from the saddle. Striding through the dew-soaked grass, he breathed in the
fresh scent of morning and the heady aroma of coffee. The others warmed
themselves at a small fire as a servant filled their cups.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Yves said.

“You’re alone?” Roland demanded. “Where is Marcel?”

“Indisposed. He’ll not leave his bed this day. However, I
have come
au lieu de mon frère
. Mr. Johnston, I presume you will consider your
debt paid by joining with me?”

From Adam’s bleary eyes, Yves guessed he had suffered from
more than one sleepless night. Was he remembering why they were there? Did he see
Nicolette’s bruised, bloody face in his dreams?

“Certainly. I accept your proxy.”

And he'd live another day for it.

“Coffee?” Roland said.

Yves accepted a cup and observed Adam from the corner of his
eye. Marianne’s brother had found his courage at last. Good for him. But he had
not yet paid for what he did to Nicolette.

Adam pulled a paper from his pocket. Hesitating, he held it
out to Yves. “Would you deliver this letter?”

Yves stiffened at sight of Nicolette’s name on the creamy
vellum. His voice was dangerous. “You would insult her further?”

Adam’s hand trembled. “I mean no offense. Please.”

Reluctantly, Yves accepted the letter. He need not deliver
it, after all.

He looked at Adam more closely. The man was the picture of
misery, all his youth swallowed up by his burdens. If it were allowed, He
believed he would apologize here on the field. Was he prepared to defend himself
at all?

Roland tossed the dregs of his coffee into the fire. “Shall
we begin?”

The servant took the duelists’ coats.  Yves opened his shirt
to Roland, demonstrating he wore no protective shield over his breast. Adam did
the same.

Finely balanced, sharp-edged, Yves’ rapier was an elegant
instrument designed primarily for thrusting, but it could deliver a deadly
slash as well. Grand-père Chamard had defended his honor with it on reputedly
twelve occasions in the days when dueling was a daily event under the willows
of the park.

Roland verified the opponents’ rapiers were of equal length,
and Yves swished his once or twice to loosen his wrist. Adam too accustomed
himself to the weight of his sword, flexing his shoulders and arms.

Yves knew his adversary. In their youth, Adam had been lazy
and undisciplined, no match for Yves when they had on occasion sparred together
at the
maison de maître d’armes
. Adam had never won a match against him, and
Yves did not expect Adam’s skills to have improved. Perhaps Adam thought
Marcel’s skills more nearly matched his own, but he was mistaken. If anything,
Marcel, for all his careless-seeming nonchalance, was a deadlier swordsman than
Yves.
Lucky for you, you poor fool, that Marcel lies in his bed this morning.

Roland produced a silver dollar, tossed it, caught it, and
flattened his other hand under it. “Monsieur?”

“Heads.”

Roland removed his hand to reveal the tail side of the coin.
“Adam, choose your position.”

Adam considered the angle of the sun, the direction of the
breeze. In a valiant gesture, he walked to the center of the meadow and faced
the sun.

Roland invited Yves to take his place so that with swords
extended, two feet separated the points of the weapons.

His breathing was fast and they had not yet begun, Yves noted.
Adam was scared.

Yves knew what Adam did not: Adam would survive this duel.
The suffering was to be in the fear, and by now the expectation, of death. And
so Yves intended to play him, to prolong the suspense.

Rapiers at the ready, Yves skewered Adam with his eye. “
En
garde
,” he said quietly. Adam’s eye betrayed not the steel one expected of a
duelist but a hopeless determination to do what he must.

The man was in no fit state for this.

Roland accepted each man’s nod of readiness. “
Allez!
”

Adam opened aggressively with a
balestra
followed by a
lunge, which Yves easily put down. Yves countered with his own assault, and the
blades sang as each took the other’s measure, the meadow stilled at the flash
and zing of the swords.

His wrist was rigid.

Metal screeching on metal in a
glissade
, Adam’s blade
scraped down the length of Yves’. Yves disengaged and flicked his point at the
loose sleeve of Adam’s shirt, careful not to draw blood. A show of blood would
stop the duel. It was too soon for that.

Adam backed two paces, caution in his eyes. Yves advanced.
Adam executed a
contra-dégagement
to break Yves’ push, but Yves was not
deceived.

Sweat rolled down Yves’ face, but cool-headed and
conditioned, Yves controlled the fight. He worked Adam, feinting and breaking
time in a
changement de rythme
, keeping Adam off balance and defensive.

Adam flagged, his parries growing weak and erratic, and Yves
heard his ragged breathing even over the metallic din of blades striking and
sliding against each other. In a sudden, impetuous rally, Adam advanced. He
wielded his blade furiously, wildly even, overextending his lunge, and Yves
easily side-stepped its mortal point.

He was wide open. Did he want to die?

Yves refused the opportunity, intending that Adam feel Death
breathing on his neck before he finished it. An ear, Yves thought as he pressed
Adam back another two paces. For what he did to Nicolette.

Thundering hooves and a flash of shimmering gold in the
sunlight distracted Yves for a moment, but he quickly renewed his
concentration. Adam’s now frantic unpredictability made him dangerous.

Yves advanced, ready to make an end of it.

“Stop! You must stop!”

“Miss Johnston!” Roland shouted. “Go back!”

Marianne? Yves turned his head.

At that moment, Adam attempted a thrust. Yves quickly
parried, but he failed to complete the repulse as he simultaneously tried to
watch Marianne stumbling, her skirts dragging the ground.

The follow-through behind Adam’s unblocked thrust forced the
blade through Yves’ defensive range.

With regained focus, Yves raised his rapier and diverted
Adam’s blade away from his chest, but the sword pierced his shoulder, the wound
blooming scarlet on the white shirt.

Marianne screamed.

Adam lost his grip on the impaling sword and backed away. He
shook his head, eyes wide. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.”

Yves looked down at the sword still stuck in his body and
swayed. Adam caught him and lowered him onto his side, the blade still
protruding front and back through the flesh just above Yves’ collar bone.

Yves chuckled. Adam had drawn first blood. Marcel would not
be pleased, but he’d have to admit the irony was delicious. The more he thought
of it, the funnier it got, and Yves erupted in one great peal of laughter.

“He’s in shock!” Marianne pushed Adam out of her way, the
pale gold gown billowing on the grass. “Get some brandy.”

Yves grinned. “Hello, Marianne.”

“You fool. Both of you. One of you could have been killed.”

She touched the sword protruding from his shoulder. “That’s
got to come out.”

“Wait --,” Yves said.

Marianne got to her feet and pressed her satin slipper
against his chest – “Just a minute!” Yves protested. “The surgeon . . .” – and
she pulled the rapier free.

Yves’ world went black. “Yves!” he heard. She slapped his
face. “Yves! Do not pass out!” She slapped him again, and he opened his eyes.

Her eyes were bluer than he’d ever seen them. And she was
worried about him. He grinned. “God, woman. I’d hate to see what you’d do to a
man you weren’t desperately in love with.”

“You dunderhead,” Marianne said, tears wetting her lashes.

“Miss, allow me to attend the patient,” the surgeon said,
attempting to dislodge Marianne from Yves’ side.

“She’s not going anywhere,” Yves said and kept her close.
While the doctor examined the wound, Marianne helped Yves drink from the
doctor’s flask of brandy.

“No pulsing to indicate an arterial rupture. He’ll live.”
The doctor took the flask and poured brandy over the wounds, front and back,
and let Yves lie in the chill damp grass as he fashioned bandages.

Yves didn’t mind the chill. Marianne was here, gazing at
him, holding his hand. It was as if all the weeks of doubting himself, and her,
had never happened. The morning sunlight reddened her chestnut hair, hanging
loose and tangled from the bold ride through the park. “You’re beautiful even
with twigs in your hair.”

Adam touched his sister’s shoulder.

“Damn it, Adam,” Yves said, never taking his eyes from
Marianne, “leave us alone. I’m bleeding down here.”

“He could have killed me, Marianne, at any time. But he
didn’t.”

Marianne regarded Yves a moment. He waited, hoping she would
understand, that there would be no resentments between them.

A radiant smile lit Marianne’s face. “You were going to
spare him, weren’t you? Because you’re desperately in love with me.”

With his good arm, Yves pulled her to him proved to her she
was right.

Marianne insisted on a last trip upriver to Magnolias before
the wedding and the voyage to New York. Wearing her gardening boots for the mud
and a wool pelisse against the wet wind, she walked down to the quarters. The
winter sky was deeply gray, promising another night of rain.

She found Joseph in his cabin sharpening a hoe by the light
of the fire. “Mighty cold day,” he said and sat Marianne next to the cheery
hearth. It was snug in the cabin in spite of the blustery wind, and she let her
damp cape slide over the back of the chair. A pot of stew bubbled over the
fire, scenting the room with onions and carrots and pork.

“You’re never still, are you, Joseph?” Marianne asked,
nodding toward the blade and the file.

“Oh, I’se slowed up considerable, Missy. De rheumatiz get
me, days like dis.”

Marianne grasped her hands and leaned forward. “Joseph,
you’ve labored every day of your life. I want to make it easier now.”

Joseph worked the file across the blade, the rasp rasp rasp
filling the little cabin. “I’s had de life I has. Dat’s all.”

Over the rhythmic scraping, Marianne reached out and touched
his arm. “I’m taking you with me to New York, Joseph. You and Peter and Annie.
You won’t have to work hard anymore, and I can take care of you.”

Joseph stilled the file.

“We’ll leave Magnolias tomorrow. The wedding is Monday in
New Orleans. We’ll sail on Tuesday.”

Joseph’s expression made her uneasy. Not a pleased look at
all.

“Father says there will be war. You won’t be doing the
underground railroad if there’s a war on.”

 “Long as dere’s slaves, Missy, dere be a railroad for em.”
He picked up the beat of his strokes against the blade.

He didn’t want to come with her? “Joseph?”

With small shakes of his head left and right, he said,
“Honey, I loves you. But I don belong goin nowhere. I live mos my life right
here. My chilrens is here.” He shook his head more firmly. “Missy, I gon stay
here til I dies.”

Marianne’s chest tightened. She didn’t want to say good-bye
to Joseph. Father would visit her, and write her, but Joseph -- she might never
see him again.