Deceive Not My Heart (17 page)

The news of Leonie's marriage had not been well known in New Orleans. The Saint-Andres no longer mingled in society as they once had; only their closest neighbors and friends were even aware Leonie was married. She certainly didn't wish to dwell on it. Claude's death occurred soon after the family had returned to Chateau Saint-Andre; that sad event effectively ended further speculation about Leonie's sudden, almost secretive, marriage.

The time which had passed since Claude's death and Justin's birth had not been pleasant, but somehow Leonie had struggled to retain possession of the main house and a hundred acres of land that surrounded it. Everything else—the townhouse, the two thousand or so fertile acres that had been part of the original plantation, and even
grand-pere's
one remaining thoroughbred and carriage—had been sold to pay off the bulk of his debts.

But it hadn't been enough. Some people had been kind, many of his old friends simply burning the gaming vowels and shaking their heads that a man who had once been such an astute landowner could have let himself fall so deeply in debt. Others, of course, were not so kind, but with the sale of the townhouse and the two thousand acres of prime, loamy land, Leonie had been able to placate most of those who had clamored for repayment.

When all the debts that could be paid had been paid, there was still a sizable sum of money owed, and just when Leonie had thought she would lose everything and be thrown homeless and penniless to face the world, one of her
grand-pere's
old friends came to her rescue. Monsieur Etienne de la Fontaine was their nearest neighbor; he and Claude had grown up together, and hiding the pity he had felt, he had gently suggested to Leonie that if she would put up the Chateau and the remaining lands as collateral, he would pay off the remaining debts. Gratefully, the sea-green eyes huge in her pinched face, Leonie had agreed. It had been a very one-sided bargain, for what Claude had owed, even after the sale of the townhouse and other lands, was well above what the Chateau and the hundred acres were worth. But Monsieur de la Fontaine was a kind old man and Leonie's plight distressed him. Besides, he told himself and others—someday, her husband might redeem everything and he would be well repaid.

Justin, Yvette, Leonie and the half-dozen slaves that clung so tenaciously to her skirts had lived a hand-to-mouth existence in the years that followed. They had farmed the land to obtain most of their food, and with all of them working on the remaining acres from dawn until dusk, until their backs were aching and stiff, their bodies almost exhausted, they had planted and harvested sugar cane as a salable crop for the things they couldn't provide themselves—salt, spices, materials for clothes, and shoes.

But they had survived. Until now—Monsieur de la Fontaine had died last month and his heir, Maurice, was demanding either payment of the note or the forfeiture of the lands and the house.

Staring blankly into space, the striking little face pensive, Leonie sighed.
Mon Dieu,
but life was hard. It was out of the question that she pay off the note, and so, she and the other inhabitants of the house must leave by no later than the fifteenth of May. Maurice de la Fontaine, a smirk on his dark thin face, had been adamant about that.

It was the most frightening situation of her entire life. No matter what had happened to her, her one solace had been the Chateau Saint-Andre, her home, her fortress against the world, and now in a matter of weeks, that was being wrested away from her.

Her fingers suddenly crushing the mangled rose, she thought viciously to herself, if Monsieur Slade had repaid me my dowry last year, as promised, all would be well. Damn him for the liar and cheat that he is!

She supposed she should be grateful that he had at least kept one part of their bargain and had not intruded into her life again. But in view of the child that had resulted from her desperate attempt in New Orleans to stave off more of her
grand-pere's
debts, she was thankful indeed for her marriage papers. At least no one will call Justin a bastard, she vowed fiercely.

Leonie wouldn't have been human if at times she didn't consider the possibility of appealing to her husband for aid, but her own fiery pride and a deep abiding mistrust and dislike of Monsieur Slade had stilled the notion. She would die and let the worms eat her flesh before she accepted his help. But he
owed
her the dowry, and time and circumstances were forcing her to go after it.

She sighed again, wishing there were some other way she could support herself and her little family. But there was nothing—Yvette's needlework would bring in little, Leonie herself was untrained for any work except the running of a household, and Justin and the blacks that remained with them could earn little money. Her mouth twisting derisively, she admitted there was one other way: Monsieur Maurice had intimated that he might find it agreeable not to foreclose if Leonie would be more accommodating. For obvious reasons, Leonie had scornfully thrown his offer back in his face. No, they would go to Natchez and demand that her dowry be repaid as had been promised.

A brooding expression in the cat-shaped eyes, she gazed at the soft, green mantle of grass that covered Claude's grave and said bleakly,
"Grand-pere,
I didn't come here today just to tell you that it is Justin's birthday... soon we will be leaving for Natchez and I do not know when we shall be back... if ever."

She felt the sting of tears in her eyes and swallowing painfully she added, "I must get Monsieur Slade to repay me my dowry, and I do not know if I will receive the money in time to prevent Maurice from foreclosing. I have spoken with him and he has implied he would give me until the first of July before he accepts any offers for our home. But,
grand-pere,
you do understand that I might not be able to meet the deadline? Monsieur Slade has proved himself a dishonorable man, and I may have to take him before a magistrate to get my money. That will take time... too much time, I fear."

An empty silence greeted her words, until in one of the oaks a mockingbird's clear song rang out in the warm April air. Leonie twisted around to find the source, and spying the cocky gray and white bird amongst the leafy green branches overhead, she smiled to herself. The mockingbird's song was a gay sound, and listening to the merry notes, she felt her spirits rise. She
would
succeed! She had expected no sign from the grave, but somehow, that happy warble drifting through the lazy spring air encouraged one to step forth with a lighter step... and to momentarily feel that the future might not be so bad after all.

Leonie stood up and shook out her faded blue gown. She took one last look around and then with an odd little wave of her hand, whispered,
"Adieu,
all of you who sleep here... perhaps one day I shall return."

Without a backwards glance she left the graveyard and walked quickly down the oak-lined dirt road that led to the Chateau Saint-Andre. The oaks ended and the Chateau, like a once beautiful woman who has fallen upon hard times, rose up before her, the graceful lines still very apparent, yet also the signs of age and added wear. But Leonie would not see them today; today she wanted only to see the house as it must have looked when she was born, the pale blue paint glowing softly in the sun, the railings and slender colonnades glistening white against the blue background of the house, the lawns in front a neatly scythed green velvet, and the carriageway smooth and unrutted. She closed her eyes tightly, blocking out everything except the picture in her mind... and for one long minute she let that picture form and possess her. Then with a little shake, she opened her eyes and faced reality.
Ah, bah! I am a sentimental fool to mourn an old, decrepit house!
she scolded herself briskly and hurried on her way.

She had barely reached the house when a small tornado came racing around the corner of the house, crying excitedly, "Maman, maman, come quickly, the cat had her
bebes!
Four of them, and I found them!"

At the sight of Justin, the last vestige of her unhappy thoughts vanished, and an impish grin breaking across the bewitching features, she replied,
"Bon!
We will take them with us when we leave,
oui?"

Justin was a handsome little boy, even at five years of age showing signs that one day he would be a tall man. His unruly mop of hair was black as midnight, and already the sweet boy's face revealed the beginnings of a firm jawline and an alarmingly masculine nose and chin. It was, even now in childhood, a strong face, and Leonie often stared at it, wondering what his father had looked like. Had he been a handsome man? A tall man? She rather thought so—the Saint-Andre's had never been noted for their height, and while the Saint-Andres had been passably good-looking, none of them had ever had quite the handsomeness this child possessed. The chin and jawline, she decided reflectively, must have come from his father, for they did not resemble any of the Saint-Andre physical traits.

Leonie never thought of Justin's conception. And yet occasionally, in spite of herself, she found herself wondering about the man who had fathered her child. What sort of man had he been? A kind man or a cruel one? As unscrupulous as Morgan Slade was? Or perhaps one who was gentle and concerned like old Monsieur Entienne de la Fontaine had been? She liked to think it would have been the latter, but she rather gloomily suspected the former. But if they had met under different circumstances and if he hadn't been an absolute monster, would she had been drawn to him? Perhaps he would have been attracted to her? She sighed wistfully. If only she hadn't gone to the governor's residence that fateful evening... mayhap they would have met socially and who knows—they might have fallen in love with each other, and then Justin would have a
real
father not one that existed only on a legal document.

Suddenly aware of Justin staring up at her, she pushed aside her silly thoughts and smiled down at him. And staring into his much-loved features, she couldn't honestly say that she regretted any longer that night at the governor's residence. But she didn't like to think of it. She had buried that night so deeply in her mind that it was almost as if she had created Justin all by herself. He was
her
son and hers alone!

Justin's impatient tug of her hand caused her smile to widen. How like her he was—always impatient, forever in motion! Laughing at him, hand in hand they both ran off towards the dilapidated stables to view mother cat and her newborn kittens.

Seeing the two of them running together, Leonie's bare legs flashing in the sunlight, one might be forgiven for thinking them brother and sister; Leonie's tawny hair was streaming down her back in wild curls, and with her slender body and bare feet, she hardly looked her twenty-two years of age—she certainly didn't look like the mother of the sturdy little boy at her side. It was only upon closer viewing that one noticed that there was indeed a great deal of difference between this Leonie in 1805 and the Leonie of 1799.

Five, almost six years ago Leonie had been a child, but she was a child no longer. It was true her body was still slim, but there were changes—the firm breasts were fuller and thrusted against the gown she wore; the hips were still slender but more rounded and womanly; it was unconscious, but there was a decidedly provocative sway to her walk; her face had changed the most, the sultry promise of sixteen fulfilled at twenty-two—all signs that this was no child. This was a woman.

There was now cynical knowledge in those great sea-green eyes with the golden flecks, knowledge and mockery that danced in their depths, taunting and luring a man. The fine bones of the triangular-shaped face had matured, the jawline both firm and enchanting, the pointed little chin showing clearly the determination and stubbornness of which she was capable. The attractive hollows under the high cheekbones made the face more striking, the slanting green eyes seemed even more mysterious between their gold-tipped lashes, and the sweet curve of the lush coral lips were a blatant challenge that a man might find irresistible. Leonie would never be truly lovely, but hers was a face and a form that, once seen, a man did not easily forget. It was the face of a bewitching, untamed dryad, and to anyone looking into those mocking eyes, Maurice de la Fontaine's offer wouldn't be in the least surprising.

At twenty-two she was a curious mixture of innocence and cynicism. She had known a man's passion once, she had borne a child, and yet, she had almost lived the life of a nun. Her dealings with men had not been pleasant—her grandfather had been a wastrel, she had been raped by an unknown man who had treated her like a whore, and her husband, forced upon her by her grandfather, had been certainly less than honorable. It was no wonder that when it came to men she was cynical and suspicious; even old Entienne de la Fontaine's kindness had been canceled out by his son's insulting proposition. And yet Leonie knew little of men. She had been raised away from men and their haunts and habits, and for all she had suffered at the hands of men, she might as well have lived behind the walls of a convent.

Since Claude's death, Chateau Saint-Andre had been a household of women, the only men being the black ex-slaves Saul and Abraham; Justin, Abraham, and Mammy's child, Samuel were mere babies yet and didn't count as men. And through necessity, Leonie had been forced to be the leader of the family. She had to be the strong one, the wise one, the one who made the decisions. It was to her that Saul and Abraham came for their orders; it had been she who made all the hard choices that affected their lives, and she who ultimately had to provide a way of life for all of them.

Leonie had freed the slaves when Claude had died and had steeled herself to watch them go, leaving her and Yvette to face the future by themselves. But while they had eagerly enough taken the papers that freed them, no one had seemed inclined to leave the Chateau Saint-Andre and life had gone on as it always had. As Mammy had said crisply, "What good it do us to go somewheres else? This is home!"