Wronged (The Cuvier Widows Book 1)

Copyright © 2012 Sylvia McDaniel

Smashwords Edition

Published by Virtual Bookseller

Originally published by Kensington in
2002

All Rights Reserved

All Rights Returned To The Author.

ISBN-13:9780988451322

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Cover by Kathleen Baldwin

New Orleans, 1895

Marian Cuvier for years thought her husband
kept a mistress and that her marriage to Jean Cuvier wasn’t worth
the paper their marriage license was printed on. Still, the sight
of the man she had spent the last twelve years of her life
with—borne two children and made a home for—lying dead on the floor
of a bedroom in the Chateau Hotel ripped a sob of anguish from her
throat

“What happened?” she cried, her mind reeling
with thoughts of her fatherless children wrenching her heart.

Policemen stood around the body in small
groups, ceased their low whispers and glanced her direction, their
gazes stern, but curious.

A man half-bent over Jean’s body turned and
gazed at her, his dark eyes intense. “Who are you, Madame?”

“I’m his wife, Marian Cuvier,” she said,
starting to tremble from the shock of her husband’s death. His body
lay twisted grotesquely on the floor, his skin an odd pinkish
hue.

Oh God, no matter how much I hated him, I
would never have wished him dead!

The man crouching over the body slowly rose
to his full height, his brows drawn together in a frown. “His wife
is sitting in the next room Madame.”

“What?” she asked, not sure she heard him
correctly. “I’m Marian Cuvier. I’m his wife. Who are you?”

“I’m detective Dunegan.” He gave her a stem
look and took her by the arm, leading her from the bedroom.

Unable to resist, she glanced back perhaps
for the last time at the still form that long ago had been her
lover, and of late an absent husband. She closed her eyes, the
image of the handsome man she’d married twelve years ago foremost
in her mind. When she opened her eyes she looked toward the
detective, not at the corpse who’d never been a good husband.

“Madame, I will ask you again. Who are you?
His wife is sitting in the next room.”

Confusion rippled through her and she pulled
away from the man as they entered the parlor. “That must be his
mistress. I am Mrs. Jean Cuvier, we’ve been married for twelve
years.”

The hotel clerk, who earlier had summoned her
from her house and brought her to the Chateau Hotel, cleared his
throat to draw the detective’s attention. He leaned over and
whispered something to the younger man who glanced again at
Marian.

As if she were at a play, she watched from a
distance as the scene unfolded before her, a sense of uneasiness
holding her in its grip. The body lying on the floor of the bedroom
looked like her husband, Jean, who was expected home today. She
supposed the corpse littering the floor must be her cold-hearted
husband, the man who had visited her bed fewer times than he had
the church, which was almost never.

Detective Dunegan gazed at her, his
expression one of bewilderment. “My apologies, Mrs. Cuvier. There
seems to be some confusion. The hotel clerk confirmed you were
indeed married to Mr. Cuvier. If you’re his wife, then, who is the
woman who was with Mr. Cuvier?”

The detective watched her closely as if he
feared she would be overcome by the news her husband had died in a
hotel room with another woman. Clearly, the detective had no clue
that her marriage existed only on paper. How could she explain that
her husband no longer found her attractive? That Jean often sought
the company of other women.

Impossible. So she said nothing about the
state of her marriage. Let the police figure it out, maybe they
could find the reasons why her husband no longer made love to
her.

Marian lifted her chin and consciously pulled
her shoulders back. Made of stronger fabric than most women, she
would weather this storm, just like all the others Jean put her
through. She ignored the way her insides began to quiver.

“Perhaps she is his mistress,” she
acknowledged, her suspicions about Jean realized.

Damn him, did he never think of their
children?

The door to the room burst open and a blonde
woman dressed in an exquisite, embroidered crepe lisse flouncing
with white India silk, hurried into the room. Her heart-shaped face
and soft blue eyes looked distressed and her complexion pale.
“Where is he? Is he all right? They told me he was ill.”

The detective put himself between the young
woman and the door to the room where Jean’s body lay sprawled.

“Who are you?” Officer Dunegan asked, halting
the stylish woman who looked almost like a young girl.

“I’m Mrs. Cuvier,” she replied, her face
anxious. “I went by Jean’s office and they sent me over here. Is
the doctor with him?”

“Good Lord, another one?” the detective
muttered, gazing at both of them.

“Who did you say you were?” Marian questioned
as she stared at this woman in disbelief.

The woman gave Marian a quick disdainful
glance. “I’m Mrs. Nicole Cuvier, Jean’s wife. Now, where is my
husband?”

Marian wondered if she’d heard her correctly.
Did she say she was Jean’s wife?

The detective glanced at Marian and then at
the other woman. “Jean Cuvier is dead.”

Marion watched the woman as her trembling
hand clutched her delicate throat. Her eyes reflected horror, while
her face tightened with shock and her body swayed. For a moment
Marian thought the newcomer would faint and she wondered if this
whole scene was a bad dream.

“No! No!” the blonde woman cried, tears
rushing to her eyes. “Dear God, no. He can’t be! Let me see him.
Please tell me this is a mistake. Where is he?”

The detective glanced at Marian who stood
staring at the scene in front of her, shock freezing her at the
woman’s outburst. Jean had likely never been faithful, but how many
women could one man be involved with? And did he really marry
them?

“I’ll take you to him,” the man said taking
Nicole by the arm. “I’m Detective Dunegan, with the New Orleans
police.”

He led the latest Mrs. Cuvier into the
bedroom where the body lay sprawled on the floor. Marian stood in
the center of the parlor, not knowing what to do, feeling like the
ground had been ripped from beneath her feet.

Two other women claimed to be Jean’s wife!
The latest wife was young, attractive, and certainly more appealing
for Jean to bed than herself. Could the women be lying about their
marital status? Yet the newest Mrs. Cuvier certainly appeared the
grieving widow, more so than even Marian. If she were lying, she
certainly played her part well.

Or could this be some ploy to cover his
murder? Extort money? None of this felt real, but it didn’t feel
like a lie either. Speculation, but possible.

When the detective and the young woman
returned, Marian still stood in the same place, the policemen
walking a wide path around her as she stood transfixed, staring,
stunned by the day’s events.

The room filled with the sounds of the newest
Mrs. Cuvier’s soft sobs, and Marian felt the most incredible urge
to comfort her. To shield her from the hurt that Jean could so
easily inflict. She shook herself. When Nicole learned of Marian’s
identity, she would not accept Marian’s offer of solace.

“I think we need to remain calm, sit down,
and find out what happened,” the officer said, his voice firm and
reassuring.

Calm? Remaining composed seemed impossible
when you suspect your husband had found you so inappetent that he
kept not one but two women to stimulate his sexual desires, leaving
you to wait for him to return to the home you shared.

“What—what ... happened,” Nicole sobbed, her
face streaked with tears. “How did he die?”

Marian gazed with interest at the detective.
What did it say about her relationship with Jean that she hadn’t
even thought to ask that but rather just accepted the fact that
Jean was dead.

“Poisoning. We suspect that his wi... the
woman we found him with poisoned him.”

Nicole spun around and glared at Marian
through her tears.

Marian gazed back at the angry and beautiful
young woman, until she realized Nicole thought she had killed Jean.
“Not me. There’s another woman.”

“What do you mean another woman?” Nicole
asked.

“You’re not the only Mrs. Cuvier in this
hotel suite.”

“I don’t believe you,” Nicole said almost
hysterical.

Marian wanted to laugh, but thought it would
be cruel and there was already more than enough pain in this hotel
room. So instead she remained quiet, let the detective explain the
situation.

The detective took Nicole by the arm and
motioned for Marian to follow him. They walked into an adjoining
room where a girl who looked like she should still be in school sat
staring out the window at the horizon, her dark eyes glazed and
distant.

“Layla,” the detective said, releasing
Nicole. “Tell these women how the man you’re suspected of killing
was related to you.”

She turned her oval-shaped face toward the
door. Hair as black as night was swept up off her neck in a
coiffure that left wisps of curls swirling around her pale face.
She glanced at the detective and raised her brows in a disdainful
look that was both elegant and disapproving. “I told you I did not
kill my husband.”

Nicole moaned, the knowledge seeming like a
blow to her. “What are you saying? You lie. You can’t be married to
Jean?”

The girl stared at Nicole, not
responding.

“Did you marry Jean Cuvier?” Marian asked
gently feeling more certain that Jean had married each one of them.
If Jean had done what she suspected, she had a sudden premonition
they were all going to need consoling in the next few minutes.

“Yes,” the young girl said, her voice
starting to tremble. Her bright red lips pouted.

Marian squeezed her eyes shut, letting the
waves of pain almost overwhelm her at Jean’s deception. How could
he do this to her? To the others? To their children?

“That can’t be. He married me. He’s my
husband,” Nicole said, her voice rising, the pain and hurt audible
in her voice.

“And mine,” Marian said quietly, as she sank
down onto a nearby chair. “I’m Marian Cuvier. I married him twelve
years ago at St. Ann’s Cathedral.”

Nicole turned abruptly and looked at Marian
in disbelief. “No. That’s impossible.” She paused, her face
contorted in disbelief. “No. We were married four years ago. I
don’t understand. He would never do something so horrible.”

“And I married him a year ago,” Layla
whispered, her face turning ashen.

“Impossible. Jean loved me. That’s ... that’s
bigamy!” Nicole said, shaking her head from side to side.

“Yes it is bigamy. We’re all married to the
same man,” Marian replied, her voice distant and hollow. Her
insides were numb. Her mind slowed to a crawl, as she comprehended
the situation. “And now we’re all Jean’s widows. The Cuvier
Widows.”

***

Marian shut the wooden door of her house
behind her and leaned against it, relieved to finally be home, to
her children. For four hours the detective interrogated her before
he concluded she had answered enough questions and released her.
Now before she could rest, she must finalize the funeral
arrangements, notify the family, and the children...God, she
dreaded telling her babies.