Gypsy Lady (47 page)

Viewing
his relaxed position at the end of the long table, one hand curling languidly
about the stem of a crystal goblet, she hated to be the one to break this
companionable silence. But he had been the one who had brought up Blood
Drinker's trip, and it opened the door to something that had been worrying her
for weeks. Finally mustering up the nerve to say the words, she blurted,
"May I send a letter with Blood Drinker?"

Stiffening
only slightly, Jason stared at her thoughtfully before asking, "Who in
New Orleans are you writing to?"

Determined
to get it behind her, she rushed on, "No one in New Orleans. My mother
will have arrived by now, and I would like to let her know where I am. Blood
Drinker could carry the letter to New Orleans, and I'm sure he could find
someone else to take it to Natchez. She'll be staying at Belle Vista."

His
nostrils flaring with anger, he said nastily, "Your lover's home?
How quaint!"

A
bright spot of color flared into Catherine's cheeks, and she almost spat the
truth at him. But swallowing the words she looked everywhere except at him,
knowing the supercilious look his face would be wearing.

"May
I send the letter?" she persevered.

Jerkily,
he tossed off the remainder of his wine.
"Why not?"
he returned coolly.
Then he completely astonished her by adding,
"Better yet, why not invite Rachael to come here? There's nothing for her
in Natchez while you are here."

Her
eyes very wide, she breathed incredulously, "Really? You won't mind?"

A
crooked smile leaped suddenly into being. "No, I won't mind. I enjoyed
your mother's company, and I know you must get lonesome for feminine companionship."

Staring
at him like one in a daze, Catherine hardly believed she was hearing
correctly, but too happy at the battle so easily won, she broke into a dazzling
smile of sheer happiness.

Watching
her, apparently casually beneath half-closed lids, as that beautiful smile of
hers spread across her face, the delight obvious in those violet eyes, Jason
felt his heart give a queer, uncertain leap. Damn! How was he ever to get her
to look at him that way without bribery?

Blood Drinker left two days
later and with him, Catherine's letter. Her heart had given a fearful bound
when, after she had handed the sealed missive to him, Jason had for a number of
minutes turned it over in his hand and looked long and hard at her and then at
the letter addressed simply to Rachael Tremayne, Belle Vista, Natchez,
Mississippi.

Finally,
with an odd smile, he handed it to the waiting Indian. Together, she and Jason
had stood on the wide, brick-steps and watched the half-dozen men ride away.

Their
going left her feeling fairly flat. She had spent a long time writing that
letter at the dark oak desk that now reposed in her room. And she had held
little back. It was imperative Rachael know exactly how things stood between
her and Jason.

Drained
by the emotion it had taken to write the letter, she slipped away upstairs and
lay in her room for several hours gathering strength for the next battle with
her husband. Ruefully she smiled to herself—it seemed their life so far was a
series of battles. Jason had won some, and she had a few to her credit, but as
yet, neither had a decisive victory.

Gradually,
the house was taking shape under Catherine's young hands. Rugs that were not
damaged, and there were a few, found their way into a number of rooms, adding a
needed note of beauty and warmth. Upholstered furniture that had appeared
ruined by unsightly stains and rats' nests had been rejuvenated with the skill
of one of the wives of Jason's men, who made use of the seemingly endless store
of cloth Jason had brought with him.

Sara
was an excellent seamstress, and with the aid of a young wench and Jeanne's
somewhat inexpert help, she had replaced the soiled and faded cloth with
bright, colorful satins and damasks. Curtains had been a problem until
Catherine had discovered bolt upon bolt of soft champagne-colored silk, and now
graceful, silken draperies lined the long windows and glass-paned doors.

Terre
du Coeur was built high from the ground and with an optimum of openness in
order to catch whatever breath of cool air was available. Nearly every room had
a set of double glass doors that opened either onto the wide galleries or onto
the courtyardlike patio at the rear of the house.

The
patio was nearly encircled by the main body of the house and the two long, low
wings that ran parallel to each other, and swept out from either side of the
house. A brick fence with a lacy ironwork grill for a gate sealed off the open
end of the patio from prying eyes.

Catherine
spent many enjoyable hours there seated under a wisteria-hung arbor that was
attached to the rear of the house, watching fondly while Nicholas, beginning to
crawl and pull himself up, played in the early morning sun.

A
large, tiered fountain was in the center of the buff-bricked patio, and wooden
tubs of gardenias and various small plants, were placed symmetrically about the
area. It was a pleasant place, where the scent of wisteria and
gardenia's
blended in the air, and the drone of the bees as
they flew from blossom to blossom mingled with the tinkle of the water in the
fountain.

This
particular morning, Catherine, wearing a cool white gown of worked muslin, her
hair captured into a queenly coronet on her small head, had been absorbed in
watching Nicholas, his fat, little legs trembling with effort as he stood
nearly alone, one tiny hand clutching the lowest rim of the fountain.

He
stood swaying a second before his confidence vanished and with more haste than
grace, sat down abruptly, wearing the face of one who had accomplished wonders.
Catherine was beaming with motherly pride at his antics when Jeanne called to her
from a small room that opened onto the patio.

The
room had been pressed into service as a sewing and dressmaking area, and
walking to the doorway, one eye still on Nicholas, Catherine gave her approval
as Jeanne held up a length of soft green chiffon.

"Oh,
that would do lovely for an underdrape in the bedrooms! Do you think there is
enough?" Then casting another glance at Nicholas and seeing his attention
riveted on his suddenly discovered toes, she took a few steps into the room.

At
the same time that Catherine stepped into the sewing room, Jason was walking
up the front steps of the house. He was hot, and he was exasperated. This morning's
clearing should have gone well, but one of the mules had gone lame, and the
untried youngster substituted in its place had created trouble. Even harnessing
him
to one of the other teams had done little but
waste time. Finally, impatiently, Jason had sent the incomplete team
back,
and no sooner had they left than one of the ropes used
to haul out the stumps had frayed and broken. It was just one of those
mornings, and as the day was becoming increasingly muggy and there was no
mistaking the signs of a coming thunderstorm, he had decided to let well enough
alone and start everyone fresh in the morning.

Handing
his hat to the waiting butler, he walked down the cool hallway towards the
patio, knowing that at this time of the morning Catherine was usually to be
found there.

The
patio was vacant, although a pitcher and a half- filled glass of sangria
sitting on the white cane table gave evidence that his wife had been there
earlier. He was already turning to walk back into the house when Nicholas,
having pulled himself up into his brave new stance, made the mistake of letting
loose of his grip on the fountain, and he fell down hard on his round, little
bottom.

More
surprised than hurt, Nicholas's eyes filled with frustrated tears, and he let
out a small, thwarted sob. Jason had as usual glanced through the child
without seeing him, but the sound caught his attention. Knowing little of
babies and thinking that the seemingly deserted child was hurt, he crossed
swiftly to his side.

What
aid Jason intended to lend was uncertain, but no sooner had he reached the baby
than Nicholas, diverted by his approach, halted the angry bawl that threatened
to erupt and instead stared open-mouthed at the tall stranger. And Jason,
staring incredulously down into the small babyish replica of his own lean
features, froze. A ragged breath caught in his throat, and like a man in a
trance he sank slowly to his haunches, his searching gaze devouring young
Nicholas.

Nicholas,
perfectly happy to be the center of adult attention, sent him a blinding smile
that was so like Catherine's that Jason felt a quiver of something approaching
delight spear his body. The smile may have been Catherine's, but the gleaming
green eyes were undeniably
his the
child was
theirs!

Hungrily,
Jason's eyes ran over the baby noting the unruly black mop of hair that either
parent could have passed on, but what gave him that trembling-in-the-gut
feeling was the fact that the child had his eyes. The child had to be
his!
How else would he have inherited those emerald
eyes and the miniature copy of his own bold nose?

With
a surprisingly gentle hand, he reached out and almost timidly touched the small
black head.
His son!
And
he never knew it! Pain like an avalanche roared through his body. Did she hate
him so much? So much, she would deny him his own son, his own flesh and blood?
And anger, anger such as he had never experienced in his entire life, swept the
pain away and left him frozen with fury at
this,
the final betrayal.

Staring
at his son, Jason's dark face was nearly ashen with emotion, and a muscle
jerked near his tightened lips. Reaching out he picked up Nicholas, and his
body was suffused with a sudden, aching love for this small part of himself.

Always
happy being held, Nicholas gave a gurgle of satisfaction as his father cradled
him
close,
and Jason looked hard at his son as if
trying to memorize those little features that gave proof of his parentage. That
was how Catherine saw them as she stepped out of the room into the soft shade
given by the low, overhanging roof. The two, man and child, bathed in the
bright sunlight, were absorbed in each other—Nicholas, deciding his father's
nose was a fascinating object, had one little hand busily exploring it, while
Jason enfolded his son protectively against his own hard chest, his eyes never
leaving the child's face.

Catherine's
lighthearted step died, and as one turned to stone, every vestige of color
fleeing her face, she stared almost frightened, yet filled with a swift,
encompassing joy.

Sensing
her presence, Jason looked up, and the look that he speared Catherine's rigid
body with would have slain her, had it been a sword. She felt the hate that
blazed in those green eyes like a knife, and at her involuntary step forward
and the small inarticulate cry of pain that escaped her white lips, Jason held
the child closer as if he feared she would snatch him away.

For
what seemed like an eternity, they stood frozen there, the man and child near
the tinkling fountain, the drone of the insects soft in the warm air, and the
woman looking like a small, white ghost in the shadows of the sloping roof.
Then throwing her a glance that combined hate, contempt and—surely not
pain?—Jason turned on his heel and stalked off into the house with his son
still clasped in his arms.

Shaking
with shock, her teeth chattering with the force of the emotion that tore
through her body, Catherine watched the tall, stiff-backed figure disappear
into the house. Like a "broken old woman she stumbled across the patio,
the pain inside her body like a live thing that threatened to tear her apart.
She reached the table and sank down, drained, into the nearby chair. Blindly
she stared out over the silent patio.

Could
it have been less than an hour ago that she had sat here happily watching
Nicholas, while weaving improbable dreams of one day Jason loving her and
understanding the confused motives that had driven her to hide his son from
him? Bitterly her mouth twisted with a new shock of pain.

What
a fool she was! She should have told Jason the truth at the beginning. Never
mind that he wouldn't have believed it from her lips, never mind that until he
saw proof with his own eyes he would have thought her a liar and a cheat.
Better
that
than the undisguised
glare of hate—yes, hate—
that had burned in his eyes!

Tiredly,
she dropped her head into her hands, the desire to weep like a beaten child
very strong. But no, she had put weeping behind her a long time ago—tears were
for fools! And dully she remembered a stray line from one of the Greek plays
that had been pounded into her head at Mrs, Siddon's: "I have wept for
these things once already." Well, she wasn't going to weep—not today.

Coolly,
her brain working furiously, she examined the paths open to her. She could go,
despite an inward quaking, and face him
now.
Yet another part of her knew that she should not
go yet—not while he was still laboring under the shock of it. Not now while
they both were so upset that they would say ugly, hurtful words that later
could not be forgotten, much less forgiven. Wait—wait like a coward, sneered
another thought. But she wasn't a coward! No, it wasn't fear that stopped her
from racing into the house after him. Common sense said wait—let him recover
and have a chance to ponder the situation before they faced one another. But
then she murmured to herself, "Yes, let him have a chance to arm himself
against you. Let him guard his emotions, and he will annihilate you as he has
done in the past.
Fool!
Do
you think he will even
try
to
delve into your possible
motives, that
he will even
attempt to understand your side?"

The
thoughts were like rattlesnakes in her brain causing her to stir uncomfortably,
but eventually the wisdom of waiting until cooler counsel could prevail, won
out. She
lay
back in the chair, her eyes closed,
willing a calmness into her body.

Any
chance of happiness they had could very well depend on the next few days, and
hot-tempered words would destroy everything. At all costs, she must remain cool
and avoid the furious rampage that must surely follow today's discovery. That
Jason had a certain amount of right on his side, she freely acknowledged.

Why
did she let provoked pride push her dangerously into situations that could have
been avoided?
she
wondered, depressed. "Aren't
you ever going to learn?" she asked herself scathingly. And guiltily she
answered, "It's not all my fault! If he wasn't so willing to believe the
worst and wasn't so arrogantly sure of himself, I wouldn't act that way! It's
his fault, too!"