Moon Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy) (12 page)

      
Rafael led her into the master bedroom, dominated by a huge four poster bed of black walnut. He took her face in his hands, the dark warm fingers caressing her cheekbones and massaging her temples as he kissed her forehead. “I love you, Deborah. Now, rest while Tonette unpacks some things for us to wear this evening.”

      
“Tonette?”

      
“Lenore's maid. Until we can find one for you, she'll be glad to help you both,” he said blithely as he left the room. When Rafael closed the door, Deborah felt enveloped in the cool darkness. The bedroom had a set of large windows facing onto another open courtyard. A faint breeze blew through them giving some relief from the heat. She slipped off the rest of her outer garments and lay across the big bed in her chemise and pantalets. Sleep claimed her almost instantly.

* * * *

      
When Rafael returned to his parents' quarters, he heard his father's angry voice. “I will have no scandal touch the Flamenco name. Do I make myself clear, young woman?”

      
“It's no scandal,” Lenore protested. “Caleb Armstrong simply offered Anna and me a ride home in his landau. We had been properly introduced, and Mellie was with me after he let Anna off at the du May place, Papa.” Listening to the argument Rafael decided there was a mulish note to his sister's voice not unlike Deborah's. Why had he never noticed the similarity before?

      
“There is no such thing as a proper introduction to an American, Lenore,” Celine hissed. “Think of the gossip. He's a land speculator as well. Not our sort at all. What will dear cousin Georges say?”

      
“For the hundredth time, I am not going to marry my cousin. I can't abide him!” On that tearful note, Lenore fled the room.

      
“As if Rafael's disastrous marriage isn't bad enough, now Lenore turns on me like a viper! Oh, Claude, what shall we do? My only son's wife—an American and even worse, a Yankee!”

      
Rafael could hear the grim tightness in his father's voice as he answered her. “I'm afraid there is nothing we can do, my dear. As our son wrote us, they were wed in the church and I am quite certain my son lost no time consummating the marriage.”

      
Celine let out another wail and fled after her distraught daughter.

      
Quite a homecoming,
Rafael thought angrily.
As if I won't have a difficult enough time easing Deborah into my parents’ good graces, my silly sister has to go and get herself involved with that Yankee upstart and balk at her sensibly arranged marriage.

      
“I applaud your common sense, Papa. Deborah is indeed my wife, and nothing will change that,” he said as he stepped into the room.

      
The older man turned angrily. “So, you've overheard how things go. Good. This is the reward we get from our offspring. Both of you infatuated with foreigners! Your mother was heartsick when she read your letter.”

      
Rafael sighed. “Look, Papa, I am sorry for the shock. We didn't plan to fall in love.” He poured himself a glass of cool wine. “In fact, it's a long and complicated story. Simply put, from the moment I saw her, I was lost. Her father is a wealthy banker from a distinguished Boston family. When we decided to wed, we knew it must be done there in his presence. He consented to have a priest perform the ceremony.”

      
“I take it they are not of our faith?” Claude asked.

      
“Deborah will become Catholic, Papa. She'll attend mass with Mama and Lenore. There's no problem with her. It's you who may make things difficult or pleasant. She will be a good wife.”

      
“A proper Creole wife, your Boston Yankee?” Claude's left brow arched in a sardonic gesture of doubt. “She looks as cold as an Atlantic storm.”

      
Rafael's face split in a youthful grin. “There you couldn't be more wrong. I wager you we'll fill this house with babies within the decade.”

      
The old man poured himself some claret and held his glass up with a cynical toast. “To all my grandsons!”

Chapter Seven

      
Deborah awoke from her exhausted slumber and sat up in the middle of the big bed, slowly orienting herself to the large room. Idly, she ran one hand across the silk sheets and imagined how it would feel to be naked on them with Rafael. Her heated thoughts were interrupted by a gentle tapping and a melodic feminine voice. “Hello. Deborah?”

      
Jumping out of bed, Deborah spied the sheer silk robe to her wedding peignoir. Slipping it on, she walked to the parlor where a small, slim young woman with dark gold hair stood, hesitantly calling her name.

      
“You must be Lenore,” she said, pushing a heavy mass of hair back over her shoulder as she welcomed her new sister-in-law and was rewarded with the first genuine smile she had received from any of her in-laws.

      
“I know you are Deborah. I've never seen hair so pale and shiny before, or violet eyes. No wonder my heartbreaking brother couldn't leave you behind. I'm so glad to meet you.” Lenore was open and friendly, the opposite of her mother.

      
Impulsively, Deborah reached out and hugged her new sister-in-law. “I can tell already we're going to be friends.” She could see the quiet beauty of this girl with large china blue eyes—eyes that showed evidence of tears. Hoping she and Rafael were not the cause, Deborah asked, “Have you seen your brother?”

      
“No, I arrived home when you and Rafael were settling in here. Then, I'm afraid, I had a disagreement with our parents. By the time I recovered myself, he had gone out; but he'll be back for dinner. That's why I came to see if you were dressing yet. I've been dying to meet the woman who won my brother's heart.”

      
They chatted like old friends as Deborah selected the coolest dress she owned. While she had been sleeping, the maid had unpacked her clothes and pressed several dresses. Now they all hung neatly in a mirrored armoire in the dressing room. Lenore helped fasten her gown and was amazed when Deborah brushed her own hair and quickly fashioned it into a smooth fat chignon at the nape of her neck.

      
“I could never do my hair without Tonette, but she can do for you, too, until we find you a maid.”

      
Deborah smiled. “I've always done my own hair. In fact, except for occasional help with fastenings and pressing, of course, I never really asked our maid to assist me at all.”

      
“But every woman of quality must have her own personal maid!”

      
Deborah chuckled as she replied, “Well, maybe in New Orleans, but I grew up in pragmatic old Boston. I've never been comfortable with too many servants underfoot. We only had four.”

      
“But Rafael said your father was a leading banker and you lived in a great, beautiful house—oh, I didn't mean to offend you, Deborah.” Lenore's face was scarlet.

      
Deborah laughed. “No offense taken, Lenore. We did have a large house, but my father and I preferred to live simply. When we entertained, I hired staff temporarily. Free men and women,” she added softly.

      
“Are you trying to make an abolitionist out of my sister, too, beloved?”

      
At the sound of Rafael's voice, Lenore whirled and catapulted herself at him with a squeal of girlish delight, barraging him with questions. How was he? How was married life agreeing with him? What had Boston been like? Did he know how fortunate he was to have found Deborah?

      
Rafael laughingly replied, “I'll tell you all about how we met. Only wait for dinner when Mama and Papa are present.” Lenore's face suddenly became shuttered and her eyes lost their sparkle.

      
Rafael questioned gently, “Were you quarreling with Mama and Papa when I came downstairs earlier, little one? Perhaps after dinner you and I can talk alone?”

      
Lenore brightened immediately, then hesitated. “I would love that, only...”

      
“Only...” he prodded patiently.

      
“I'm afraid you won't approve. You've always favored Georges.” She stopped short and looked over at Deborah, a silent onlooker at the reunion. “But now that you've broken Creole tradition and chosen such a wonderful American wife, perhaps you'll look at Caleb differently than you would have before!”

      
With that burst of youthful enthusiasm, she gave Deborah a quick peck on the cheek, hugged her brother again, and raced downstairs.

      
With a look of exaggerated aggravation, he turned to his wife. “She's such a child. Hard to believe she's eighteen, of marriageable age and then some.”

      
“I think she's delightful, only not quite as conventional as a ‘proper Creole lady’ is supposed to be. What's this about someone named Caleb? Is he American?”

      
Now Rafael really scowled. “Yes, he's American.” He said the word as if it were a malediction, taking her quite aback. “He's also a land speculator. Completely unsuitable for my sister. Georges is our kind. He'll make her a good husband.”

      
Deborah felt oddly hurt by what he said and even more hurt by the logical extension of what he implied. “I, too, am American, Rafael. So are you and all Creoles now. Is this Caleb some kind of fortune hunter?” She was acutely sensitive about that sort of situation.

      
He shrugged. “He scarcely needs her dowry, if that's what you mean. He's a self-made millionaire, typical of the crassly ambitious Yankees who are strangling our civilization.”

      
“If he doesn't need her money, then perhaps he really loves her,” she said gently.

      
Rafael's face became shuttered, much as his sister's had earlier. “Lenore has nothing to say about it. She will marry one of her own kind, a man of breeding, a gentleman, not someone who works in his shirtsleeves and drinks whiskey,” he said disdainfully.

      
Remembering the times she had come late to her father's study to find the Boston banker with sleeves rolled up, intent on his ledgers while sipping a tot of rum, Deborah was suddenly very angry. Willing herself to calm down, she took a deep breath and said levelly, “I was under the naive assumption that love had a great deal to do with marriages. Perhaps, this American isn't the right man for Lenore; but if she is dead set against your cousin Georges, he is scarcely the right man for her simply because he happens to be a Creole. Oliver Haversham was from a fine old Boston family and you were an outsider. Should I have married him instead of you?” She held her breath, suddenly afraid of his reply.

      
Rafael was in a foul humor, pressed on all sides by his parents, his sister, and now his wife, but he could sense the fear and insecurity in her query. Wanting to reassure her, perhaps to reassure himself, he reached out and drew her into his arms. “You must understand the difference it makes when a son marries as opposed to when a daughter marries. A man can take a wife from outside his culture and bring her into it. She can become a part of it because she bears his name and raises his children. When a woman leaves her own people and marries an outsider, she is lost to her family. If Lenore marries Caleb Armstrong, she'll be ostracized from all proper Creole circles here in New Orleans. She's too young and impetuous to see the consequences of the infatuation. She is Creole and she belongs here.”

      
I am not Creole and I will never belong here.
Deborah took small comfort from his unconsciously patronizing assurances, but squeezed back a sudden rush of tears. She had never had patience with vaporing women. She would simply have to try and help his sister in a less direct way.

* * * *

      
Deborah was determined to fit into her new life, but the adjustments were not easy. Early the next morning, she arose, eager to begin her household duties only to find she had none. Wilma the cook and Antoine the butler ran the city house like a piece of well-oiled machinery. Even Celine did little more than make up the menus. Everything was left in capable black hands.

      
Assuming that Creole wives did some useful work outside the home such as charity or educational endeavors, Deborah found that such a thought scandalized her mother-in-law. No proper lady of the upper class would ever dream of doing anything so degrading as tend the sick or teach the poor. Such matters were completely in the hands of the Church. The good sisters were admired for their efforts, but no lady, except in rare instances when one took the veil, ever thought of such a thing!

      
Even Lenore, an open and generous young woman, was aghast when Deborah explained that society ladies in northern cities volunteered in hospitals, opened schools for the underprivileged, and raised money for all sorts of charities. When she told her sister-in-law about the women's suffrage movement in England and France, which so many of her Boston and New York counterparts were embracing, Lenore paled, fascinated in spite of herself.

      
“You mean, you actually expect to vote?” she fairly croaked as they sat in the parlor one afternoon.

      
“A woman has a mind capable of thought. If she's responsible for bringing new life into the world, why shouldn't she be guaranteed some say about her children's lives?”

      
Lenore considered this for a moment, then said hesitantly, “Do you think a man like Caleb might agree with such a radical Yankee idea? Georges certainly wouldn't. Neither would Papa or Rafael,” she added sadly.