Emerald Ecstasy (7 page)

Maria's austere face softened, and she took the baby from Lianne and placed her on her shoulder. Désirée's dark head turned inquiringly around, and she seemed completely content. So, Lianne changed into a soft peach-colored riding habit she had bought in Ireland then went downstairs to find Dera at the dining table in conversation with a handsome gray-haired gentleman whom she introduced as Amelie's physician, Doctor Thaddeus Markham.

“Tad, I mean Doctor Markham, is here to examine Amelie this morning.”

“I hope nothing serious,” Lianne commented and noticed the high spot of color on Dera's cheeks and the vibrant purple of her eyes as she poured Doctor Markham another cup of tea.

“No, just her monthly examination.”

Thaddeus grinned charmingly, his face lighting with pleasure as he took the proffered cup from Dera. “I think you must be tired of my visits by now,” he said to Dera, then spoke to Lianne. “Mrs. Flanders pretends to enjoy our chats before I go up to see Amelie, but I know she must breathe a sigh of relief when I leave. I do love to talk.”

“Heavens no! Where do you get such a preposterous idea? I look forward to our conversations.”

Lianne thought Dera protested much too quickly and when she saw the quick rush of color on Dera's face, she knew the truth. Dera and Doctor Markham were in love with one another and neither one wished the other to know. Not understanding why they didn't tell each other, but sensing they wished to be alone, she excused herself and walked to the stables.

A September mugginess clung to the air. Large fleecy clouds hung like cotton balls overhead, and when she reached the stables, she noticed the slave who had carried Amelie into the parlor the night before. He sat hunched in a corner and whittled a piece of wood. The tiny shavings dropped at his feet. Looking up, he saw her and immediately pocketed his knife and the wood. He stood up.

“May I help you, madam?” he asked and Lianne caught the trace of a French accent.

“I'd like to ride, but there doesn't seem to be a stable-boy around.”

“That Hubert is a lazy boy. Probably chasing after a woman or asleep somewhere. I'll get a horse for you.”

He turned and walked towards a stall which had a name written on a piece of wood and nailed to a post. BAYRUM. Taking a beautiful filly from its confines, he stopped the horse before Lianne. The horse was the deepest shade of brown she'd ever seen, and when it gently nudged her, she immediately fell in love with the animal.

“Ah,
chérie,
what a sweetheart you are!”

Claude watched as she tenderly stroked the animal, a slight smile touching his usually solemn face. Only one other person had been as gentle with the horses. Now, she no longer rode.

Lianne smiled at Claude and noticed how handsome he looked. He is human, she thought to herself, having wondered if he was always so carefully restrained. “Is her name Bayrum?” she asked and nodded toward the sign.

The smile disappeared from his face, and he walked the horse into the yard. “No, madam. Her name is L'Amour Impossible, but I call her Amie.”

Impossible Love. What a strange name for a horse, Lianne thought. “Where's Bayrum?” she asked, wondering why someone would go to the trouble of placing a sign above the stall.

“Bayrum belonged to Monsieur Quint when he was alive, then when the master didn't return from Ireland, young Monsieur Daniel rode him. But Bayrum was destroyed after Madam Amelie's accident.”

“I see.” So Bayrum was the horse which had thrown Amelie, resulting in her paralysis. Had she imagined it, or had Claude's face softened at Amelie's name?

“Claude!”

Both of them turned in the direction of the sound. A man came toward them. He wore a tattered hat, pulled low across his forehead, and a roughly sewn blue shirt and pants which had seen better days. Layers of dried mud covered the dark boots that hadn't been polished since the day he pulled them from the feet of a man he had killed at a New Orleans waterfront tavern.

Bruno Haus was a burly man, a few inches over six feet, but Claude was taller. When Haus stepped between Lianne and Claude, the slave reared himself up to his full height and looked penetratingly into Bruno's face. “Yes, Monsieur Haus?” Claude asked in a toneless voice.

“Is this slave bothering you,
fraulein
? If so, I'll just use the whip on him.” To prove his point, he flicked the long, thin tail of his whip, just missing Claude by an inch. If his object was to frighten Claude, it didn't. He stood just as immovable as a statue. “I'm the overseer on Green Meadows, and my slaves keep their places.”

Lianne disliked Bruno Haus from his leering brown eyes to the tips of his dirty boots. She guessed he could be very formidable and frightening at times. She shuddered, but managed a polite smile. “Claude was about to help me mount.”

“I can do that. You go about your business, Claude. You're not supposed to be hanging around the stables anyway. I just saw Doctor Markham leave, so your mistress will be wanting you.” He emphasized the word mistress, and Lianne saw Claude roll his fists into balls, and his glance filled with hatred. To her surprise, Claude bowed low, turned and walked toward the house.

“I hate for a slave to get uppity ideas about himself. Sometimes I wonder just what he and mistress Amelie do when alone.”

“Monsieur Haus!”

Lianne's shocked tone caused Bruno to look sheepish. “Sorry, fraulein.” He helped her onto the horse. Lianne felt his hand lingered too long at her leg when the material rose a bit between her boot and the skirt, baring a bit of ivory flesh to his gaze.

“Good day,” she said and kicked harshly, pleased that his fingers had gotten in the way of her boot. She left him in the yard, sucking on his sore fingers.

The incident with Haus soon forgotten, she sauntered across the fields, awash with wild flowers and chirping birds in the tall trees. She reined in the horse and looked toward the house, all gleaming white in the early morning sunlight. To her surprise, she realized that the house wasn't as large or as grand as she had first thought. Balconies on the first and second floors ringed all four sides of the house. Large white columns supported the weight, but the home actually was small. Inside, however, it seemed larger because Dera and Quint had designed each room with unusually high ceilings to cool the house in the unrelenting summer heat of Louisiana. Though Green Meadows was not as large as her childhood home in France or Chateau de la Varre, Lianne felt drawn to it and envied the family who lived within its walls.

The property ended at a small dirt road which ran alongside a wooded area. As Lianne cantered along the road, she passed onto Belle Riviere. Dera had told her that Amelie's brother didn't take much interest in the property and Lianne realized she was right. Whereas, Green Meadows didn't have as much land, the fields were well-tended and the slaves seemed to be happy and well-fed despite their station in life. On Belle Riviere she found the fields to be overgrown with weeds, and the slaves working the cultivated land looked surly and downright thin. But it was the house she wished to see, the house in which she was born. She continued riding until she passed a thicket of trees. Then the house rose before her.

Belle Riviere stood like a pink flamingo in the midday sun. Dormered windows peered at her from the upstairs and a balcony enclosed the back side of the house on the first floor. Though Belle Riviere was much larger than Green Meadows, it wasn't as impressive. At least not now. She remembered her mother telling her how beautiful the house had been when it was first built, that it was perfect for balls and parties. However, since it was too far in the country for the leading New Orleans citizenry to travel, they entertained the Flanders family, including the two sons who ran through the house like twin tornadoes, and their other neighbors. However, most of the people in the area were poor German farmers, so there really wasn't much reason to entertain. After a few years Lianne's parents sold Belle Riviere and the family set sail for France and a new life. Though Lianne knew she was only three when they left, and had no real memories of the house, she did remember a young boy with dark hair who played ball with her on the grass in back of the house. She surmised he must have been one of Dera's sons. Just as she was about to turn Amie in the direction of Green Meadows, a man appeared from the French doors which led onto the back porch. She heard his voice call, “
Bonjour,
Comtesse! Come here!”

He waved, and she rode toward him. He left the porch and met her halfway. She looked down into his pleasant face, a face somewhat like Amelie's, except the chin was rather weak and his eyes a bit too excited. Making a bow, he lifted his blonde head and smiled disarmingly. “I am Philippe Marchand, Amelie's brother. You must be Dera's goddaughter, Lianne. Amelie mentioned to me yesterday when I saw her that you would be arriving. Please have tea with me, Comtesse.”

“Madam,” she said and slipped from the horse with his help. “I am a widow and have little use for such a title now.”

“C'est dommage!”
he intoned, but Lianne didn't think he was the least bit sorry about her marital state. Philippe took her hand and kissed it, then held it possessively against his chest. “Please come inside with me, Madame Laguens. I promise to be the gentleman and not act the notorious heartbreaker, which I am.”

She laughed, warming to the mischievous twinkle in his eyes. They were soon in the parlor, sipping tea, and she surveyed it with the eye of a detached observer. She didn't remember anything about the house, but she knew that the room had been hastily opened. It still smelled musty despite the open windows which looked onto the weedy front lawn, and Philippe told her the furnishings had belonged to the former owners.

“My parents built this house,” she told him. “This was their furniture.”

He appeared surprised. “What a coincidence, Lianne. May I call you by your name? Madam seems so impersonal.” When she nodded her agreement, he smiled as if he had won a great victory. “You may call me Philippe.”

While they sipped their tea, he watched her in fascination. Never had he seen such a gorgeous woman. Her hair shone like reflections in amber wine, her eyes resembled summer leaves, and her figure took his breath away. The thin material of the riding jacket clearly emphasized her rounded breasts, tiny waist. Ah, yes, he decided then and there, this woman would soon warm his bed and bear his sons. He impetuously decided he wanted her as his wife, but he realized she wasn't a woman to be rushed. A sense of independence clung to her. Well, that was fine for now. But once she married him, she'd do his bidding in every way, would content herself only with him, unlike another woman he once wished to marry.

“I'm afraid Belle Riviere is in poor condition,” Philippe said. “I spend a great deal of time in New Orleans where I own a vacant town house. Most of my entertaining is done in rooms I rent on the Esplanade. I have no excuse for the condition of Belle Riviere except for my absence. Soon I hope to have reason to change my situation. I hope to spend more time here in the future. Will you be at Green Meadows long?”

“A few weeks more. I return to New Orleans and hope to win a position with the opera company.”

Philippe nearly crowed with excitement. What a perfect way to ingratiate himself with the beautiful Comtesse! He wished for her to fall under his spell but realized she didn't seem duly impressed by him. Most women fell in love with him immediately. With his blond good looks and money, he could choose any woman he wanted, and he wanted Lianne Laguens. But why another opera singer?

“I know the manager,” he stated matter of factly. “I'll speak to him about you. Never worry, Lianne, you shall sing like a nightingale.”

Her face glowed with animation. “Really? Philippe, would you do that for me? I'd be indebted to you. I have a child to support.”

A child? He didn't know that. Well, that didn't matter. In fact, if he took an interest in the child, then she'd love him all the more. Reaching out, he touched her hand, then lifted it to his lips. A tiny kiss was pressed within the palm. “I think,” he said at last, when a color to match the riding outfit rose from her neck to her hairline, “that we shall be very good friends.”

De Lovis was his last hope. Daniel didn't wish to see him again, never having liked him from the first time he met Amelie's uncle when he made an unexpected visit to Belle Riviere shortly after their marriage. He found Raoul to be arrogant, pompous, and a bit cruel. But then any number of people could say that about himself. Amelie would. Raoul had made no bones about the fact that he didn't think he was suitable for his niece, but the damage had been done. Yet Daniel suspected the match did please him because of Green Meadows. It was a prosperous plantation in its way, and if one thing impressed Raoul de Lovis, it was wealth and all that entailed.

Well, Daniel was wealthy and influential in his own right. His paintings were the rage in Europe right now, and in Spain he rivaled Goya. Didn't all the rich matrons and their daughters wish to pose for him, to lure him into their beds? And he had been luring a number of them these days. He found Madrid, as well as Paris, offered a feast for the senses.