Tainted Lilies (19 page)

The tap-tap of a hammer disturbed the early-morning silence in Bourbon Street. An old man, his dingy shirtsleeves banded in black crepe, went about his task of hanging death notices throughout the city. Later, the citizens would learn from these public announcements that a prominent Creole had died—where, when, and the hour of the funeral.

The crier hung his last black-bordered sheet and ambled on, passing the Vernet/Bermudez house, which still smoldered from the ruinous fire two nights before. Only hours had passed since the rubble had cooled enough to allow rescuers in. It was then that they discovered her body—the remains charred beyond recognition. But, of course, everyone knew who it was.

Père Antoine, with an escort of City Guards, rode immediately to Belle Pointe to break the sad news to the Vernet family.

Such a tragedy, the old man thought, for Mademoiselle Nicolette to end this way when she escaped the flames the day she was born.

He plodded into Royal Street in time to see the Vernet carriage arriving at the townhouse. Tipping his tall hat, he muttered his condolences to Claude Vernet, then moved on swiftly, not anxious to get caught up in the family’s deep grief.

He knew them all—Claude, whose only hint of sorrow now could be seen in the slight sag of his shoulders; Madame DelaCroix, her face set in painful lines but her back ramrod straight. And then there was Madame Vernet, pitiful in her weeping, unable to support herself. The crier watched from the corner of Chartres Street as she was helped from the carriage and carried into the house by a strong servant.

The bells of Saint Louis Cathedral tolled mournfully. The city lay draped in a strange, gray mist as if it too felt the loss. The man shook his head and shuffled on.

The red-haired man and woman lay sleeping under a blanket of blistering June heat, naked and beautiful, the pair.

Her bright tresses swept back from her face to cover the pillow in burnished waves. His hair framed strong features molded by sea, sun, and wind, and glowed a bronzed gold in the morning light.

She lay on her back, peaked breasts thrusting high, one hand demurely placed to cover the dark triangle between her thighs. He stretched, full length, on his stomach, his slim, white buttocks, tense even in sleep, startling in contrast to the mahogany hue of his torso and legs.

All was quiet. Nothing moved in the thick humidity.

The slightest breeze began to stir the lace curtains at the window of the ballast stone mansion. It eased into the room and slipped soundlessly through the mosquito netting to kiss the woman’s cheek. She smiled, moved her head. Her eyes remained closed. Only a hand awoke fully—to creep across the satin sheet and find her lover. The barest touch against his thigh, no more, and he was there—pulling her into his arms, seeking her lips, caressing her breasts.

Eyes fluttered open momentarily—green-gold searching ultramarine. They smiled. They kissed again. He buried her beneath him and found the hidden entrance to his pleasures, and hers.

Even after their hour of leisurely lovemaking, in which time they explored the wonders of each other’s bodies as if for the first time, after that gentle descent from passion to afterglow, they still clung to each other, their bodies one.

“I’ll never have enough of you, darling,” he whispered huskily.

She only sighed and snuggled closer as if she wished to meld her entire body, indeed, her very soul to his.

A knock at the door brought an annoyed oath from Jean Laffite. “Why must they interrupt us every time?” he said, pulling on a robe and tossing the velvet coverlet over his lover.

Dominique Youx, a sheepish look on his powder-scarred face, stood in the hallway. “A thousand pardons, Nikki,” he stammered, nodding toward the figure in the bed. “I would not interrupt… er… that is, disturb you, if this weren’t of grave importance. One of our ships has come in from New Orleans with distressing news.”

Laffite stared at his older brother. He could tell that whatever Dominique had to say to them was something he dreaded. The man was never at a loss for words, but now he hesitated and stuttered.

“Come in, Dom,” Laffite insisted. “Tell us what it is.”

Dominique’s eyes never left Nicolette, though their expression held a sort of startled wonder rather than the lust or curiosity one would have expected under the circumstances.

“Well, out with it!” Laffite prompted.

Dominique shrugged and said, “I don’t know any other way to say this. Excuse my bluntness. Nikki, it seems your family buried your remains in Saint Louis Cemetery last week. A woman died in the fire on Bourbon Street. Everyone believes it was you!”

“My God!” Laffite exclaimed. “Who could it have been?”

“Papa! Maman!” Nicolette cried. “Oh, how awful for them!”

Laffite went to her and put his arms around her for comfort. “Take it easy, darling. We’ll get word to them immediately. I’ll send Raymond in the courier pirogue. You can write to them so they’ll see the news comes directly from you. But who else was in the house with you when I came?”

“No one, Jean. I was all alone… and so frightened!” She paused for a moment, then remembered. “Jada! She went down to the pantry and left me by myself. When the fire started, she must have been trapped below stairs.”

“Jada? One of the servants?”

Nicolette nodded, deciding not to tell that she was also Diego’s daughter and lover, and would have been his mistress, if she hadn’t died.

“Any word about Bermudez?” Laffite asked.

“Oui!
It seems the bereaved husband attended the funeral services, then retired to his plantation for a short rest before setting out on a business trip to an undisclosed destination up the river.”

“He knew it wasn’t me!” Nicolette cried out. “Why didn’t he tell my parents the truth—spare them all this?”

Laffite’s voice softened. “How could he tell them the truth, darling? That he lost everything, including his bride, in a poker game? That he tried to kill her? That he set a fire that could have destroyed the entire city? No! I wouldn’t put it past him to have murdered the serving woman and tossed her body in the flames to make it look as if you were dead.”

“Yes, Diego Bermudez would kill his own daughter to save himself,” Nicolette said quietly.

Laffite took her trembling hands in his and looked into her eyes. “Nicolette, when you write to your father, tell him you are alive, but tell him too that you are with the man you love—the man you want to be your husband. Try to explain to him. We don’t need any more hurt. Let’s see if we can’t reconcile your family to our relationship… our happiness.”

“I will, Jean. They must understand!”

Claude Vernet sat like a zombie in the
petit salon
of his New Orleans house, holding Nicolette’s letter crumpled in his fist. Gabrielle DelaCroix, a fine gown of royal-blue silk replacing the black bombazine she had worn for the past ten days, moved about the room, ripping down mourning crepe and opening shutters. A relieved smile lit her face.

“I might have guessed!” she called over her shoulder. “Laffite saved her! Imagine! And how romantic of him to carry her off to his island—their love nest.”

“She might just as well be dead,” Claude remarked glumly. “How could she do this to us? She has a husband! Diego is distraught over her death. How can I tell the poor man that she’s alive, but has run away with her lover? And of all men, that pirate!”

“How dare you say such a thing, Claude Vernet? Jean Laffite is not a pirate! He is an honest man, involved in a slightly dishonest business. But he never plundered or killed for personal gain. And even if he were the most bloodthirsty villain since Blackbeard, I would think that his saving your daughter’s life would temper your hatred for him. I tried to tell you before the wedding that Nicolette was in love with Laffite, but you refused to listen. And Nikki was being so stubborn! Can you believe that the girl feels such family loyalty that she would give up the man she loves just to please you? If we have a pirate in this family, his name is
Claude Vernet
!”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about, Gabrielle. Pirate, indeed!” He rose to his feet and started to leave the room, but his sister-in-law blocked the way.

“You’re going to listen to me! I’ve kept quiet all these years. I let you off and never spoke my mind before or after you married my sister. But I will not allow you to make a disaster of Nikki’s life the way you ruined mine, Francine’s, and your own!”

Claude Vernet sat back down heavily. Never before had he heard such a fierce tone in Gabrielle’s voice. Her brown eyes blazed at him and her face flushed with anger. For a moment, he remembered that she had looked much like this the night he had come to ask for Francine’s hand. He had evaded her wrath that evening, but today there seemed no way out.

“Do you love my sister, Claude?” she demanded.

He couldn’t meet her eyes. “Love? Of course I love Frannie. We’ve been married all these years. We’ve had children. We still have Nikki.”

“Don’t change the subject! I asked about love, not marriage, and we both know there’s a vast difference between the two. You and I have experienced both and should be able to recognize that by now. When was the last time you made love to my sister with the kind of fire and passion you showed me that day in the meadow at Belle Pointe?”

Claude Vernet shifted uneasily in his chair. Gabrielle had finally brought up what had remained unmentionable between them all these years.

In spite of his wishes, his mind flashed back to a sun-drenched field where red clover perfumed the spring air. He saw himself—a lusty lad of eighteen, his blood fired with first love and the rising sap of the season. And there beside him lay the most beautiful girl he had ever seen—her skin, magnolia-pale and -soft, her eyes like bright amber, her lips parted, inviting.

He closed his eyes and tried to will the visions away—to push them back into the locked part of his brain where he had kept them for so long, hoping they would fade with time. But the memories refused to be banished. He saw again her virgin breasts, felt their sweet warmth against his bare chest. He relived in an instant his own stallionlike thrust, which initiated them both into the secret society of lovers. And he heard again her sighs, her words of love.

“I love you, Claude Vernet.” But these words came from her lips, not from his memory.

“No, Gabi. You mustn’t say that… or think it!”

“And you Claude, mustn’t lie to yourself. Not any longer. I watched the expression on your face just now. You were thinking about us, weren’t you?”

Emotion choked his words. His Creole reserve melted into an affirmative nod.

“And did you think the scene through to the very end, to the place where we kissed one last time and promised to love each other always? We both knew you were meant to wed my sister, but you said—you
promised—
you would speak to my father and set things right.”

Claude Vernet hung his head, feeling like the confused and dejected lad he had been that summer. “I couldn’t,” he whispered. “I’ve told you before how sorry I’ve been all these years, Gabi. I never wanted to hurt you.”

“Hurt
me?
Claude, darling, don’t you realize what you’ve done to yourself… to Frannie? She never wanted to marry anyone. Her only wish in life was to enter the convent. But because you let our parents dictate our futures, Frannie has lived her life like a frightened rabbit—terrified of the world, even her own husband. You have been an exemplary mate. No woman could have asked for more kindness and understanding than you’ve given Frannie. But don’t you see? You’ve killed the love that lived in you! And Frannie, who loved the Church above all else, has been dying by degrees all these years. I’m not like my sister. I cling to life! I demand happiness! But my only true and lasting happiness will come when you and I can be together.”

“Gabrielle, what a thing to say! Are you wishing your own sister dead?”

She ignored his question for the moment and went on. “We made a promise to each other, Claude. I mean to hold you to it. Frannie confided in me that the two of you have not shared a bed since Nikki was born. I know about your mistress, Claude, and I feel cheated! You can’t be faithful to my sister because she won’t give you what you need. But if your love must find another home, why not with me instead of that woman on the ramparts? What difference would it make, other than the fact that I truly love you?”

“No.” His answer was barely a whisper.

“Do you love me?”

His head jerked up and their gazes caught and held. He felt new life flowing through his body. For an instant he could have been eighteen once more. Suddenly, his arms went to Gabrielle’s waist and he clung to her, burying his tear-streaked face against the bodice of her gown.

“Yes, Gabi, yes! I’ve always loved you!”

She leaned down then and found his lips. A million times in her dreams, waking and sleeping, she had envisioned this moment. Now, at last, it was real. Her senses soared as Claude Vernet held her, caressed her, whispered out his flood of emotions, which had been dammed for over twenty years.

“And now, Claude, my darling,” Gabrielle said at last, “I hope you understand your daughter better. She possesses the same fire that runs in your veins and mine. Do you want her to have to endure an agony of years waiting for someone she can truly love? Which is more important—what your friends say and think or what your daughter feels?”

He clasped Gabrielle to him once more and covered her mouth with hungry lips. His kisses held the answer to all her questions.

Belle Pointe, Louisiana
June 20, 1813

My dearest Nikki,

There are no words to describe my emotion on reading your letter. To lose one so dear, then literally have that beloved daughter return from the grave, it is almost beyond human comprehension. I can only say how very much I love you,
ma chère,
and how your maman and I send up hourly prayers of thanks to
he bon Dieu
for your return. All our friends join in our joy and thanks.

As for your decision to remain with Monsieur Laffite, I admit to being outraged at first. But you have a wise and understanding friend in your Tante Gabi—we both have. She has made me see that love, above all else, is sacred. Had I known of your affection for Jean Laffite before I forced you to marry Bermudez, I like to think I would have understood. I am trying now to reason with my heart more than with my head. Dear Gabi assures me I will be much better off for it. Perhaps we all would be!

As for your legal husband, he has disappeared amidst a wave of the most shocking rumors. It would seem that you are a far better judge of human nature than I will ever be. At any rate, you are well rid of Bermudez! Should he resurface and attempt to claim you as his own, I will go to any lengths, even to ending his miserable life on the field of honor, to keep you safe from him. I must say that I was mortified to learn that my own dear daughter had been used as a stake in a game of chance, but again
Le bon Dieu
was watching over my
enfant
when He gave Monsieur Laffite the winning hand!

I understand that there are legal complications at present which prevent the brothers Laffite from visiting New Orleans openly. But we would be happy to welcome you here at Belle Pointe at any time.

Your maman and Tante Gabi send their love and kisses and I remain—

Your adoring papa,
Claude Vernet