The Wedding Cake (The Wedding Series) (12 page)

“I ain’t sure. She ain’t actin’ herself and that’s for—”

“Stop it!” I pushed away from the encircling arms. “Stop it, both of you. I don’t know what you’re trying to do to me, but I won’t allow it. I won’t.” Twisting away from the two faces that stared at me wide-eyed and open mouthed, I stumbled back toward the bed.

I would climb in, cover myself up and shut out this nightmare.

And I would have, if not for the glimpse I caught as I passed the gilded mirror hanging above the chest of drawers.

I stopped, my heart pounding like the drums I heard. Was it last night? They seemed still to echo through my head. Slowly I turned, approaching the looking glass as if I faced the guillotine. My fingers gripped the mahogany chest till they hurt.

“What...?” Unable to even formulate the question my mouth clamped shut as I stared at my reflected image. It was the image of a woman in the first bloom of beauty: eyes blue, long lashed and clear; mouth and jaw firm; skin unwrinkled and pale.

I swallowed, watching the motion of my smooth throat before grabbing a handful of the thick, dark hair curling about my shoulders. I yanked, savoring the pain. It was the only real thing in a world suddenly gone mad.

Tears welled as I realized something else. My legs did not ache, nor my joints. Only my head where I pulled on the thick lock of hair. Slowly I loosened my fingers and took a deep breath.

“What’s happening to me? Why do I look this way?” I turned toward my mother when I spoke.

“I have no idea what you are trying to do, Eugenie, but I insist that you stop this instant. Your father is waiting below stairs for us.” That said she turned gracefully and left the room.

“It ain’t nothin’ to worry yourself ’bout, Miss Eugenie. We’ll have ye lookin’ right fine before ye leave. See?” Mammy’s long fingered hands twisted in my hair, pulling it up in some semblance of style. “Ye just need a bit of fixin’ up. Come on over to your bath ’for it cools and we need to heat more water.”

I wanted to scream and stamp my feet, to insist that I wished to wake from this horror, to plead with Mammy to stop it. Instead I followed meekly as Mammy led me to the tub. It was as if my mind suddenly went numb.

The warm water slipped over my body, a body both young and supple; a body that should have pleased me, but I could not stand to look at myself. I sat motionless, my eyes closed as Mammy washed, then dried me. A chemise of finest silk slid over my body before I sat on the bench in front of the dressing table for Mammy to arrange my hair.

The routine was as familiar as breathing. I turned, my mind now racing, and my eyes met Mammy’s. For a moment, despite the young appearance of her face, I caught a glimpse of infinite age in those dark orbs. Age and wisdom and knowledge.

She knew!

Of course she knew what happened to me. She did it. The drums. The dancing and chants. Mammy had cast a spell upon me.

I opened my mouth to question her, sure that this time she would tell the truth. But before I could speak the moment was gone. Mammy bustled away and my thoughts were in such a turmoil I wondered if it wasn’t best to be quiet. At least until I had a moment to myself to think. A moment to decide what was happening.

It wasn’t until I descended the wide spiral staircase that I had an inkling. Dressed in a traveling gown of a style popular when I was young, with high waist and no crinolines, I met my mother in the center hallway. I smiled. Despite everything it was wonderful to see her again.

Her expression didn’t change. “I’m pleased to see you are yourself again. We will, of course, act as if the scene in your bedroom didn’t happen. Naturally we shall say nothing to your father.” She paused, her serious eyes looking toward me for confirmation.

“Naturally,” I agreed, partly because I didn’t know what else to say, and partly because agreeing with my mother came so easily to me, even after all these years.

“I suppose it only natural that you should be a bit unnerved. It is not every day that a young woman’s betrothal is announced.”

“Betrothal?” I tried controlling the anxiety in my voice, but with little success.

“Eugenie, do not start this again. I will not have it. And see.” A door opened and shut toward the back of the hallway. “Here is your father.”

As instructed I remained quiet, though not for the reason my mother wished. I stood dumbstruck as my father, full of vitality and life, approached. He was a slight man, barely taller than I, and my last recollection of him was with sunken eyes and skin stretched taut over a wasted skull. Mother died young so the transformation didn’t seem so extreme. But Father. I had watched him waste away. And now he was back.

He greeted me as he’d always done, with a slight bow of his aristocratic head and a murmuring of my name. Then we were climbing in the well-sprung coach that would take us the few miles from Belle Maison to our town house in New Orleans and to the ball where my betrothal was to be announced.

I rested my bonneted head against the soft leather squab as the coach rolled through the alley of moss-drenched oaks. There was no need for anyone to tell me what day this was, or what year. My memory, though dulled by age, was still sharp enough to recall this day.

This All Hallow’s Eve.

I even remembered now the journey to town with my parents. The excitement I’d felt as the evening grew near. There was to be ball, a grand ball, for my family was aristocratic and wealthy. They were émigrés, true, forced to leave France or lose their heads. But Edmund de Valliers was ingenious and managed to emigrate his small family
and
his fortune.

And tonight, amid the jewels and glittering gowns of New Orleans Society, Edmund de Valliers would announce that his only child, the charming and beautiful Eugenie would marry equally rich and aristocratic Phillipe Riene.

Except that I never would.

For tonight I would meet for the first time the American, Captain Zachary Hamilton.

My sharp intake of breath was met with an equally sharp look from my mother. But my father didn’t appear to notice. He spoke, in the pontificating style I remembered so well, of the recent purchase of all the land drained by the Mississippi by the upstart country of the United States.

“It is inconceivable to me,” he said to no one in particular. “What was in Bonaparte’s mind to do such a thing?”

“Perhaps time will show the sale is for the best.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth I knew I’d made a mistake. My father, along with many others of French descent, never accepted the fact that Louisiana belonged to the United States. Furthermore, it was only when he was very old that he allowed anyone, especially me, to contradict him. He was a man whose every word was obeyed. Over the years I had grown comfortable with blaming him and his dominance for the disaster of my life. It was less painful than blaming myself.

We arrived at the graceful town house on Royal Street without an argument starting. I kept my counsel, using the time to stare out the window at the impenetrable pine forests. The ride was familiar, of that there was no doubt, but I didn’t know if I was remembering this very day or the countless times I’d taken the same route.

No matter, I could not wait to speak again with Mammy, who rode with the other servants, in the carriage behind ours. But there was no time for talk. When we arrived I was immediately bundled off above stairs to rest.

The day was warm and the doors to the gallery overlooking the garden open. As I lay on the cool sheets listening to the birds singing, breathing in the fragrant scents of late flowering roses, I couldn’t help wondering when this dream would end.

That’s when I heard the cock crowing.

~ ~ ~

The hall was exactly as I remembered.

Crystal chandeliers gleamed, prisming the light from hundreds of candles. Urns filled with flowers sat between gleaming white columns. The orchestra sat on the raised dais and a soft breeze off the gulf cooled the room.

A night to match no other. Despite my trepidation, I felt caught up in the excitement. Perhaps this jest of God’s was not too high a price to pay for one more glimpse of my beloved Zachary.

My eyes kept straying toward the arched entrance, even as Phillipe bowed over my hand. I stood between Mother and Father, accepting compliments from a man who soon would become my betrothed.

“You shine brighter than all the stars tonight.” I could feel the warmth of his moist lips through my glove. “But that is as it should be.”

I made some inane reply, probably similar to the one I made fifty years before, and surveyed this man my father had chosen for me to wed.

Like Father, he was slight of build, and very near the same in age. But he was not unhandsome. His plantation, Bon Sejour, bordered Belle Maison. Phillipe was a widower, known in New Orleans for his love of beautiful women, and I remembered being quite happy when originally told of the planned union. I was pleased that all the young women of my acquaintance were quite jealous.

I could feel everyone’s eyes on me as I accompanied Phillipe to the head of the line for the first quadrille. My feet remembered the steps as if it were yesterday rather than decades ago that I last danced. The music swirled about us and sweet compliments oozed from my partner’s tongue like honey from a hive.

My skin, my lips, the fresh flowers twisted in my dark curls, this man found everything about me to his liking. It was easy to allow myself to be caught up in the splendor of the moment. Easy to forget that my life was truly over. Easy to forget all but the music and dancing.

Yet I knew the moment he entered the ballroom.

Of its own accord my head turned. Our eyes met. And all the ensuing years evaporated into nothingness. Everything, the music, Phillipe, all the gaily-dressed guests seemed to disappear.

There was only the man I loved.

The Captain’s Conquest

The Traitor’s Embrace

Wild Southern Nights

To Love a Rebel

The Captain’s Captive

The Rebel’s Kiss

Sea Fires

Sea of Desire

Sea of Temptation

Sea of Christmas Miracles
(novella)

My Savage Heart

My Seaswept Heart

My Heavenly Heart

Splendor

The Renegade

The Rebel

The Rogue

By the Book

Déjà Vu
(novella)

The Wedding Cake
(novella)

The Bride
(novella)

My Savage Heart

“
My Savage Heart
will leave readers breathless and eagerly anticipating the remaining novels in this new trilogy. Ms. Dorsey has created another incredible hero and a wonderful love story.”

~ Romantic Times

“As always, Christine Dorsey can be counted on to give us a tale full of adventure and romance.
My Savage Heart
is a poignantly written, emotion-packed read that will touch your heart. Her full-bodied characters and well-written storyline will have you engrossed from the first page to the very last.”

~ Affaire de Coeur

Sea of Temptation

“In
Sea of Temptation
, the sensational conclusion to her outstanding Charleston Trilogy, Christine Dorsey demonstrates why she is one of the most talented authors of the genre today: strong, unforgettable characters, rousing adventures, and history combine to create “keepers.”

~ Romantic Times

“Ms. Dorsey’s hero and heroine are both strong-willed individuals and their misunderstandings add some very funny situations to this action-packed historical. On the other hand, their fiery passion will send your temperature rising. An outstanding, conclusion to a fascinating series on the Blackstones.”

~ Rendezvous

Sea of Desire

“Christine Dorsey has written a tale of passion, adventure, and love that is impossible to put down. Her heroine is feisty and her hero will leave you breathless.
Sea of Desire
is a book you shouldn’t miss and will need some space on your keeper shelf. It is marvelous!”

~ Affaire de Coeur

“Blazing passion, nonstop adventure, and a “be-still-my-beating-heart” hero are just a few of the highlights of this captivating second novel in Ms. Dorsey’s Charleston Trilogy.
Sea of Desire
is not to be missed!”