Ever My Love: A Saga of Slavery and Deliverance (The Plantation Series Book 2) (39 page)

She hadn’t given a thought to his daughter, to all the
grandchildren Joseph had on the place. She stared at the fire until she had
herself under control. She’d been terribly selfish to think he belonged only to
her.

“I understand. Of course you don’t want to leave your
family, Joseph.”

Joseph crossed the floor to Marianne and kissed the top of
her head. “I gon miss you, honey. You like one of my own.”

Marianne hugged him, blotting her tears on the brown wool of
his vest. “How can I leave you?” she snuffled into his chest.

Joseph rocked her in his arms. “You gon have me crying too
here a minute,” he said, his voice thick.

Marianne found her handkerchief and blew her nose. “It
really was awful of me to think of taking you from your grandbabies, Joseph.
I’m sorry.”

With his rough old hands, Joseph cradled her face. “Missy,
you don be sorry. I proud of what you done here wid all you people. Proud as I
can be.”

Marianne buried her face against him, holding on as long as
she could.

Marianne and Yves, joined now in the sight of God and of
every soul in New Orleans, marched hand and hand down the aisle to the joyous
din of ringing bells.

Outside St. Louis Cathedral, their friends joined them in
the cold brilliant sunshine of Jackson Square for an impromptu, informal reception.
No one congratulated “Miss Marianne” – she heard only “Madame Chamard,” “Mrs.
Chamard,” and she gloried in her new name.

Yves smiled and laughed with the well-wishers, keeping
Marianne close, in spite of the throng surrounding them. He needed his right
hand to accept the congratulations of his friends, but he draped his left arm
around her shoulders, then slid his restless hand down just below her waist. In
a moment, he swept up her back to stroke the nape of her neck. Marianne could
hardly do her part in smiling and nodding to the well-wishers, her senses so
concentrated on Yves’ every caress.

While one tedious old gentleman prattled on, Yves ran his
hand down her arm, and while he nodded and said “Indeed” to the old man, he
stroked Marianne’s palm.

He knew what that did to her! He did it again, and a laugh
escaped her before she could stop it. The old gentleman frowned, but she smiled
him down. In only a few hours, her husband would do more to her than tickle her
palm. Nerves, anticipation, a little anxiety – Marianne seized Yves’ hand so
his fingers could not undo her in front of all these people.

Marguerite Johnston, Marianne’s step-mother, stepped between
them. “Time to change into your evening clothes,” she instructed.

Marianne did not want to let go of Yves even for a moment,
but Marguerite had accomplished an amazing feat, arranging the wedding on short
notice and making it the grand affair it was, and would be; the evening’s
reception and ball were the opening of New Orleans’society’s rousing New Year’s
celebrations.

Be gracious, Marianne scolded herself. Only a few hours
until all these people went away and she was in Yves’ own room, in his arms, in his
bed.

Her step-mother hurried her home to the Johnston mansion to
change for the wedding supper. Marianne allowed herself to be cinched and tied
and adorned for the evening in a robin’s egg blue gown, dipped low across her
chest, pearls scalloped over her bosom. Yards and yards of magnificent satin
flounced from a fitted waist and barely concealed her blue satin dancing
slippers. A hot-house orchid adorned her upswept hair, and the ransomed pearls
hung from her ears.

Marianne endured dozens of kisses from elderly aunts,
doddering uncles, cousins, friends, and acquaintances. Yves suffered the same
duties, and Marianne discreetly maneuvered closer to him as he did toward her
until their elbows brushed as they greeted the guests. The supper tables,
clothed in snowy linen and replete with fine wines and the best cooking in New
Orleans, glittered with silver and crystal. Cruelly, Marguerite seated Yves
across from Marianne. She tried to do her duty to the guests, but Marianne’s
eyes constantly found his.

Supper came to a close, the orchestra tuned their
instruments and more guests filled the Johnston mansion. At last, the ball
began.

Marianne, beribboned, bedecked, besotted, tilted her head as
Yves whirled her around the room with a dozen other couples, the gentlemen in
their black cutaways and striped trousers, the ladies in taffetas, silks, and
satins, their skirts billowing behind them as they danced.

“I hope we always waltz, even when we’re old,” Marianne
said.

“Wear this blue dress, I’ll waltz you every night of your
life.”

With Yves’ hand on her waist, Marianne followed him round
and round the room and then out the door onto the veranda. where potted palms
screened wrought iron benches. Seated in shadowed seclusion, Marianne moved her
skirt to make room for Yves.

“Madame Chamard, I have something to tell you.”

“That you love me desperately?”

“I fear you may need convincing.” He kissed her, a deep and
proprietary kiss. Marianne’s stays prevented the intake of breath she needed,
and when Yves moved his mouth to her throat, she didn’t care if she fainted.
“More,” she murmured.

He whispered in her ear. “The stroke of midnight, I’m going
to ravish you.”

He nibbled her neck and she laughed. “In front of all these
people?”

He stood up and held his arm out for her. “I’ve
reconsidered. We’ll leave the ball first.”

“I can wait that long only if you dance with me.”

She stepped into his arms and he rocked her to the music for
a moment before he waltzed her back into the soft light of the ballroom.

All of society filled the Johnston house. Nearly everyone
the families knew sipped punch and admired the newlyweds. But Marianne counted
the missing, too. Adam was not here. He had sat with Father and Marguerite
through the ceremony and the mass at St. Louis Cathedral. Afterwards, he found
a moment to take her aside, kiss her cheek, and promise to write.  Then Adam
slipped out of the church. By now, he was on his way to South Carolina to join
Butler’s First Infantry Regiment. Despite the duel and his reconciliation with
Father and her, he seemed still to suffer. Her poor brother, he might never
forgive himself.

Marianne’s list of the missing included Yves’ other family.
The Johnston and Chamard parents had not invited them, and neither Gabriel and
Simone, nor Nicolette with her suitor Mr. Whiteaker, danced among the guests.
Marianne’s pleasure in the waltz faded.

“You’re frowning,” Yves said.

“I’m thinking of the family and friends who are not here,
not white, not welcome.”

Yves nodded. “Yes, it is our loss. But in New York, we will
choose our own friends.”

“And your family, all of them, will be welcome in our home.”

“For now, sweetheart, we have a waltz playing and our
wedding to enjoy.” Yves whirled her in wide circles and brought the glow back
into her eyes.

At last, persuaded by Yves’ suffering in his wool coat,
Marianne agreed to leave the dance floor and take a glass of sillery. Cups of
wine punch in hand, they made their way through the congratulatory crowd to the
drawing room.

Yves nudged Marianne toward the settee where Madame DeBlieux
sat with her middle daughter Musette.

“Tante Josie,” Yves said to his honorary aunt.

“Yves, my darling,” she said as he leaned down for her kiss.
“Madame Chamard, sit with me a moment.” Musette made room for Marianne on the
sofa.

Josephine, with a gleam in her eye, offered to tell about
Yves’ boyhood escapades and Marianne settled in to be amused. Yves bent to
Musette, who was nervously enjoying her first season, and whispered in her ear.
She blushed as she accepted his arm and Yves led her to the dance floor.

At half past eleven, Monsieur Bertrand Chamard found
Marianne in lively discussion with Madam DeBlieux. “Josephine, my darling, you
look lovely as always.”

Marianne, curious about the half-understood ancient gossip
she’d heard about the widow and the widower, watched Josephine respond to the
suave and handsome Bertrand’s familiarity with a particularly warm smile.

“
Bonne Année
, Bertrand,” Josephine said. “I suppose you’ve
come to rescue your daughter-in-law?”

Bertrand took Josephine’s hand. “I did, Josie.” He spoke
very quietly, so quietly it was hard for Marianne to eavesdrop “But I wish to
return to you before the stroke of midnight. May I?”

She’s blushing!

“At midnight, then,” Josephine DeBlieux promised.

Bertrand held his arm out for Marianne. “I thought this
might be my only chance for a dance, my dear. Yves has monopolized you scandalously.”

“Yes,” Marianne smiled, “hasn’t he?”

The ballroom, overheated from the gas lamps and the dancing
couples, nevertheless enticed with the strains of the orchestra. Marianne
placed her hand in Monsieur Chamard’s and he led her onto the floor.

“You’ve made my son a happy man, Madame,” he said.

Marianne thought she might never stop smiling. “And I am a
happy woman, Monsieur.”

“I’d like it if you called me Papa.”

Marcel tapped his father’s shoulder. “May I?”

Marianne stood on tiptoe and kissed her father-in-law’s
cheek. “Thank you, Papa.”

Still smiling, she held her arms out for Marcel’s embrace
and he whirled her back into the dance. “I’m having the time of my life,” she
said, “dancing with each and every Chamard.”

“I’m the best dancer, though, have you noticed?” Marcel
said.

“Are you?”

He winked at her. “And the best kisser.”

She laughed out loud at that.

“Now you’ve hurt my feelings,” Marcel declared with a grin.
“And here is your beloved, just in time for midnight, so it will be another New
Year before I can prove it to you.”

Yves elbowed his brother aside. “I think I saw Lindsay
Morgan watching you over there. Go prove yourself to her.”

The orchestra brought the music to a close. The clock began
its chime, and Yves locked Marianne in his arms and kissed her deeply and
hotly, consuming her.

“Scandalous!” Marianne heard an old dowager whisper. Yes,
and wonderful.

At one minute into January 1, 1861, the orchestra struck up
a lively tune and the kissing couples released each other, some more
reluctantly than others.

“Can we go now?” Marianne whispered.

Yves kissed the tip of her nose, then spoke into her ear.
“Let’s make a run for it.”

With as little notice as possible, Marianne asked Charles
for her blue satin cape and slipped out the side door with Yves where a
carriage awaited. They were to spend their first night together across town in
the Chamard house while the rest of the families partied at the Johnstons’.

The house was dark except for a single lamp in the entryway.
Yves tapped on the door with his cane and the Chamard butler let them in. “I
got you a fire up yonder, M’sieu Yves. Good evenin, Madame. Ya’ll go on up. I
see you in de mawnin wid de coffee.”

Yves led the way with a candle held aloft. Marianne concentrated
on managing her skirts on the narrow stairs. Yes, she’d been dancing for hours,
and her corset pressed on her ribs, but those facts could hardly account for
the difficulty she had in breathing. She knew what waited in the marriage bed,
of course she did. And she wanted what his kisses and caresses promised her.
Still, mixed with desire, she recognized apprehension. It would be more than
kissing and petting in that room upstairs.

Yves opened the door. The fire, of oak with apple wood
shavings, warmed and scented the air. Dominating the room, the four poster bed,
plush and deep with pillows, stirred Marianne’s feelings, all of them, the
anxious and the lustful.

Yves closed the door and Marianne turned to face him. Her
husband.

Her arms were inside the satin cloak, pulling it tight
around her. He drew her into him and rested his chin on her head. “Cold?”

She swallowed. “I’m not cold.”

He undid the clasp at her neck and let the satin pelisse
slip off her shoulders. He shrugged off his own satin-lined cape, the sensuous
slide of it down his body drawing Marianne’s eyes. Yves gazed at her bare
shoulders, her bosom only half covered by the low-cut gown. He toyed with the
pearls draped along the neckline, then kissed her ear, nibbled down her neck.

Marianne waited for the kind of kiss he’d given her in Miss
Ginny’s cabin, but he touched her mouth lightly, brushing his lips across hers.
The tension was unbearable, she couldn’t stand it. She wanted to feel what
she’d felt that day on the Trace. She pressed her mouth against his, caught his
upper lip in her teeth. His tongue ran across hers and she leaned her breasts
into his chest, pushing her kiss into his.

“Marianne,” he whispered. “There’s no hurry, darling.
Relax.”

“I’m just a little nervous,” she confessed.

“We’ll have a glass of wine. Enjoy the fire.”

Yves pulled chairs closer to the hearth and sat Marianne
down. Seated across from her, he pushed aside the voluminous skirt and found
her ankle. He pulled the slipper over her heel, her silk stocking smooth under his
hand, and kneaded her foot, massaging the arch and the toes one by one.
Marianne leaned back in her chair.

“That’s heavenly.”

“I can make it even better.” He ran his hands up her leg to
the garter and released the white silk. Slowly, carefully, he rolled the
stocking down her thigh, over her knee, and past her ankle until it was off,
exposing her naked foot in the firelight. He probed her instep with strong,
gentle fingers. Then the other stocking. As he unhooked her garter, he opened
his hand and ran his palm over her thigh. In every direction, her skin ached
for him to explore further, but he rolled the silk down and kept his hands on
her foot.