Only With Your Love (11 page)

Keeping Celia to the side, Griffin peered in the screened door of the kitchen, his eyes glinted with satisfaction. “As I’d hoped,” he said, and pried the door open with the tips of his fingers. Celia stumbled beside him, following blindly as he pulled her inside.

The kitchen was large, possessing a fireplace with logs at least twelve feet long. There was an enormous iron cookstove, racks of pans and cranes from which pots and kettles hung. Three women, two Negro and one white, were putting up preserves. The air was thick with the aroma of boiling fruit and sugar. At the sound of the intruders, the women turned simultaneously and froze at the sight of the bearded giant who had entered their domain. No recognition was evident on their faces.

The woman at the stove, who had been stirring the contents of a boiling pot, stared at Griffin uncomprehendingly. Her hair, the most brilliant shade of red Celia had ever seen, was disheveled and curling from the steam. Her porcelain skin was flushed pink. A black dress and gray apron swathed her small but voluptuous form. She looked to be in her late twenties, her lush beauty fully developed and matured. Celia collected her scattered thoughts enough to decide that this must be Lysette Vallerand, Philippe’s stepmother.

The plump, bosomy woman working at the
wooden table in the center of the room was the first to move. She lifted the small paring knife she had been using to slice strawberries, and brandished it threateningly.

Griffin smiled. “
Restes tranquille,
” he said. “Settle your feathers, Berté—I don’t intend to steal anything today.”

“
Monsieur Justin,
” the cook exclaimed.

The red-haired woman dropped the spoon she was holding. “Justin,” she breathed, her hazel eyes dilating. “Is it you? I cannot believe—” She broke off and turned to the lean, dignified woman with iron-gray hair. “Noeline, go find Max. Tell him to come quickly.” Noeline departed with a murmured assent.

Celia shrank back into a corner, watching in confusion as Lysette descended on Griffin like a small storm, scolding tearfully and throwing her arms around him. “For so long we’ve wondered what happened, why you never…
Mon Dieu,
you don’t look like yourself…you…” She stopped and peered into his dark face. “You know about Philippe—I can see it in your eyes.”

“Yes, I know,” Griffin said. Gently he extricated himself from Lysette’s grasp. She was the only woman in the world he had any respect and affection for. Even so, he did not like to be touched. Not by anyone. Brusquely he gestured to Celia “
Belle-mère
…this is Philippe’s wife.”

His statement was met with shocked silence. “It can’t be,” Lysette said. “Philippe’s wife was with him on the merchant ship, and—”

“She was taken to Crow’s Island by the men who captured the ship. I happened to be there at the time.”

“Justin, is there any chance Philippe—”

“No chance,” he said huskily.

Lysette nodded sorrowfully and turned to study Celia’s strained face. “My poor dear,” she said with compassion. “I can only imagine what you must have gone through.” When Celia did not speak, Lysette turned to Griffin questioningly.

“Use French,” he said. “Her English isn’t good.”

Celia passed a trembling hand over her moist forehead. The hot, sweet air in the kitchen filled her nostrils. She felt dizzy as she stared at Griffin. “Why did you call her
belle-mère?
” she asked in a faltering voice.

Lysette threw Griffin a sharp look. “Justin,” she said in French, “you didn’t tell her who you are?”

He shrugged. “The less she knew the better.”

“Of course,” Lysette said with a scowl, and turned back to Celia. “He’s made a lifelong habit of trusting no one, least of all women. The reason he calls me
belle-mère
is that I am his stepmother. Justin and Philippe are—were—brothers. Twins, in fact.”

Celia shook her head dazedly. “No.”

“Here, come sit down in this chair, you look pale—”

“No!” Celia fought off the gentle hands, feeling as if she had just been hit in the stomach. She leaned against the wall, staring at Griffin’s implacable face. “Philippe did not have a brother. He never mentioned one, never—”

“It’s safer—not to mention more convenient—for them to ignore my existence,” Griffin said.

Lysette sputtered with indignation. “Perhaps if you did not disappear for six years at a time we would find it easier to include you in the family!”

“Five years,” he corrected.

Celia continued to stare at Griffin. “If you were
truly Philippe’s brother, you…you would not be an outlaw. A
pirate.
” She gave the last word a loathing emphasis. “And you are not Philippe’s twin, because he was only twenty-five, and you…” Confused, she fell silent. She had assumed he was at least in his thirties. Oh God, might he bear some resemblance to Philippe underneath all that hair and beard? The eyes were the same. She put her hand over her mouth, feeling ill.

“I’m older than Philippe by about five minutes,” Griffin said. “Or so I’ve been told.”

“Eight,” came a masculine voice from the doorway. “I was there.”

The voice belonged to the most imposing man Celia had ever seen. There was no doubt it was Maximilien Vallerand. He more than matched Philippe’s descriptions. His features were steely, and his eyes were an oddly pale shade of brown that looked like gold. A handsome man of forty-five, he had the lean, long-limbed body of a horseman and the dark elegance of a Creole aristocrat. He was dressed in black breeches and boots, and a snowy white shirt open at the throat. His hair was jet-black, touched with silver at the temples. It was easy to see where Philippe had gotten his looks.

Justin stepped forward and met his gaze steadily. “Father. I know what Philippe meant to you. I’m sorry.”

For a second the golden eyes glittered, and Maximilien appeared to swallow back some painful emotion. It was only then that Celia noticed the deep shadows that sleepless nights had left under his eyes, and the harsh lines of grief on his handsome face.

There was a brittle silence while the two men assessed each other. Celia found it hard to believe
they were father and son. Aside from their similar build and height, there was no likeness between them. She was reminded of a sleek panther confronting a shaggy swamp cat. Maximilien Vallerand was polished and sophisticated. He had a presence and authority that commanded the attention of everyone around him. But Justin was unkempt, ragged. He had only the shrewd cunning of a scavenger. Years of association with the lowest ranks of society had erased any cultivation he might have once had.

“I know the man responsible for Philippe’s death,” Justin said abruptly. “Dominic Legare. He and his men took the ship, put the crew to death, and kidnapped Philippe’s wife.” He indicated Celia with an awkward gesture. “I brought her to you. That’s the only reason I’m here. I swear I’ll make Legare pay for what he’s done.”

“No,” Maximilien said. “The commanding officer of the naval station has been supplied with new gunboats and men to stop the attacks in the Gulf. You will allow him to take care of it.”

“No military man could ever get to Legare,” Justin sneered. “I’m the only one capable of tracking him down.”

“I cannot lose another son,” Maximilien said, his voice scratchy. “We must talk, Justin. You can’t continue—”

“No time to talk,” Justin interrupted. He turned to the cook, who had been observing the scene with rapt interest. “Food, Berté. Something I can carry off with me. I have to get the hell away from here before I’m caught. I’ll take some of those ash cakes in the hearth.”

The woman waited until she received a confirming nod from Maximilien, then scurried to the fireplace. The cakes, made from flour, buttermilk,
and shortening, steamed as they were removed from the hot ashes.

Justin turned his gaze on Celia, who was still wedged in the corner. He scowled and strode to a nearby chair, shoving it toward her with his booted foot. “Sit down,” he said roughly. “You’re about to faint.”

She jerked away from him as he reached for her. “Don’t touch me,” she cried, reeling from the shock and humiliation of finding out that Griffin was Philippe’s brother, his
twin.
He had taken and used her body, knowing she would have to face his family afterward, knowing she would be too ashamed ever to tell a soul about it. He had betrayed his brother’s memory deliberately. By making her respond to him, he had placed half the responsibility on her shoulders. What contempt he must have for her…almost as much as she had for herself. She had never felt so helpless and outraged. She wished she could hurt him, strike at him, repay him for what he had done to her.

Lysette tried to soothe her. “Celia, we all understand that you have undergone terrible—”

“You understand
nothing,
” Celia heard herself interrupt wildly. A vision of Philippe’s blood-soaked back flashed before her. She clutched her tattered shirt and pulled it closer around her body, feeling as if she needed protection from their prying eyes. “How could you? How could you begin to understand?”

“You’re right,” Maximilien said, surprising them all by approaching Celia and taking hold of her shoulders. The calm authority of his voice broke through her agitation. She found herself held by his penetrating golden gaze. “The fact that you are here is a miracle, and one of the few
decent things my son has done in his life. I can see you are exhausted,
petite bru.
You will allow my wife to see to your welfare,
d’accord?
You are part of my family now.” He gave her shoulders an encouraging squeeze and released her. “Everything will be all right. Go with Lysette.”

The way Maximilien spoke was gentle and kind, but somehow he left no possibility of refusal. Celia nodded docilely and went toward Lysette’s outstretched hand.

“Amazing,” she heard Justin jeer. “For the last three days I’ve had to threaten her every step of the way. You do know how to handle women, Father.”

Celia stopped at the door, pausing to look at him, her thin face white with hatred. “I pray to God I will never see you again,” she said stiffly.

“You won’t,” Justin replied, mockery glinting in his eyes. “But you won’t forget me.”

As soon as Celia turned away, Justin’s face was wiped clean of emotion. He stared after her, not accepting the wrapped bundle Berté handed him until Lysette and Celia were completely out of sight. “She’s been through hell,” he muttered.

Maximilien stroked his clean-shaven chin thoughtfully. “How much of that was your fault?”

Justin smiled. “You always did know the right questions to ask, Father.” He lifted the bundle of ash cakes and sent the cook a grin. “
Adieu, Berté. Et merci.
”

“Where are you going?” Maximilien demanded. “Stay here, dammit.”

Justin shook his head. “You know I can’t. I…” He paused as Berté resumed her work at the stove, her ears twitching.

“Berté, leave,” Maximilien said. She obeyed
with a grumbled observation about the inconvenience of men in the kitchen.

“I have to keep moving,” Justin said. “I killed Legare’s brother André while taking Celia out of that hellhole. I’d have killed him too if only I’d had the chance. Now Legare won’t rest until he’s severed my head from my body. I’ll have to get to him first. I’ve already endangered the family by being here.”

“I can protect my family,” Maximilien said grimly. “Including you.”

Justin raised his brows, laughed shortly, and shook his head. “Even if you could handle Legare, you couldn’t keep the authorities at bay. If they knew I was here, I’d find myself dangling from the end of a rope before the week is out. Too many people suspect who I really am. And a host of crimes I haven’t committed have been laid at my feet. Not even your vaunted friendship with the governor could stay my speedy execution.”

Maximilien swore with helpless anger. “Damn you for choosing this life for yourself. It didn’t have to be this way.”

“No? Since the day I was born it was common knowledge I was rotten to the core. I was obligated to prove everyone right.”

“Stubborn fool,” Maximilien said quietly. “I made unforgivable mistakes with you and Philippe. Mistakes you’ve had to pay for. The sins of the father…but even now it’s not too late. Let me help you. You underestimate me in many ways,
mon fils.
I understand more than you think.”

There was an iron grip on Justin’s insides that would not let go. For too long his survival had depended on suppressing any softness in himself.
He couldn’t accept anything from his father, from anyone. He needed no one.

“Goodbye, Father,” he said, not meeting Maximilien’s eyes.

“Justin, wait—”

“God be with you.” With that, he slipped outside, making his way back to the pirogue and the bayou.

September, 1817

“R
egardes,
I have put on weight.” Celia twisted to view her reflection. She hadn’t looked closely at herself in a long while, only glanced in the mirror to neaten her hair or straighten her clothes. Some time during the past four months of living with the Vallerands, the frailty had gone from her arms and the hollows had left her face and neck. Even her breasts, which had been small and flat before, had developed a nicely rounded appearance.

Lysette smile, watching as a seamstress adjusted and pinned the hem of another black gown for Celia. “You were so dreadfully thin when you first came to us,” she said. “I’m glad to see Berté’s cooking has had such a good effect.”

Celia twisted again, raising her eyebrows as she saw how the bombazine silk draped over her curving hips and buttocks. The gown was fashionably high-waisted and collarless, trimmed at the neckline and shoulders with black jet beads. The skirt flowed gently from her hips to the ground, concealing her ankles and feet. She took
an experimental breath, watching as the bodice of the gown tightened over her breasts.

“Hold still, madame,” the seamstress requested.

Celia made a face. “Soon I won’t be able to wear any of my gowns.”

“
That
will be a long time coming,” Lysette said dryly, and approached the standing mirror to appraise her own reflection critically. “I, on the other hand, must regain the figure I lost with Rafael.” She beamed at the chubby red-haired infant on the floor, who was playing with swatches of fabric. “You were worth every pound, darling. Do not listen to Maman.”

The seamstress, a pretty young Irish girl named Briony, paused and spoke through the pins in her mouth. “Monsieur Valleyrand wouldna change a hair on yer head, madame.”

Lysette laughed and shook her head. “Max is not a fit judge of my figure. He loves me.”

Celia smiled slightly, thinking to herself that there was no need for Lysette to take off an ounce. She was a petite Venus, voluptuous and perfectly proportioned. With her red hair and vivacious nature, she was as vibrant as a flame. It was not difficult to see why even a man as powerful and aloof as Maximilien Vallerand was wrapped around her finger.

“Max doesn’t like to see me in black,” Lysette said with a sigh, returning to the brocaded settee and picking up a tiny pair of pantalets she was mending for one of her two young daughters. “All last year we were in mourning because of the passing of his mother Irénée. And now…” A touch of melancholy entered her expression, and Celia knew she was thinking of Philippe.

The mourning period would last for another
eight months, during which the adult members of the Vallerand family would wear nothing but black. And for a long time afterward, Celia would not be able to dress in anything but somber shades of lavender and gray. There were Creole customs Celia had to observe strictly, or she would face the censure of New Orleans. When she wrote letters, the border of the paper was black. She wore no jewelry except for a jet brooch, and when she ventured out in public, her hair and face were concealed behind a dark crepe veil. Even the buttons on her clothes were small and dull-surfaced. The social functions she was allowed to attend were limited, and she had no interactions with men.

Celia found the isolation no hardship. She welcomed the privacy she found on the plantation. For her the days held a serenity she sorely needed. Lately Lysette, a sociable creature with many friends, both Creole and American, had tried to persuade her out of her solitude. But Celia didn’t need anyone to gossip with or confide in, and she didn’t want to take part in family gatherings. All she needed was work with which to occupy herself and time to reconcile herself to Philippe’s death.

There were countless chores Celia helped with at the plantation, which was a small world in itself. The women made wine, butter, bread, preserves, and sausage; put up vegetables; and kept detailed books of supplies to be purchased. Making soap and candles required a full day of labor each month. There were always glassware, silver, and china to be washed and polished, not to mention carpets to be cleaned and laundering to be supervised. The one task that seemed endless was
needlework: stitching, darning, mending, quilting, and embroidering.

Celia became acquainted with many of the slave women as she shared in the housework, but she was too shy to imitate Lysette’s familiar manner with them. She did not understand the complex relationship between slave and slaveowner, the sense of being part of the same family yet maintaining boundaries that were never crossed. Some of the plantation wives clearly regarded their servants as property, while others seemed to have genuine affection for them. One day the mistress of a neighboring plantation called on Lysette and broke down into sobs while telling of the death of an old family servant. “She was more of a mother to me than my own,” the woman had cried, mopping her face with a lace handkerchief. Celia had been confused by her attitude. If the servant had truly been such a beloved friend, how could the woman have kept her in enslavement? Perhaps in time, Celia thought, she would come to understand this odd society.

Southerners were puzzling, Creoles in particular. But Celia was bewildered most of all by the Vallerands. They were a large family with innumerable cousins, and their past was filled with scandals and dark secrets that were hinted at but never revealed. Celia wished she could tell Philippe that he had not prepared her for them at all!

It was impossible to avoid hearing the rumors that circulated about all of the Vallerands, even Lysette. During one afternoon of calls and refreshments, Lysette’s sister-in-law, Henriette, had sat next to Celia and told family secrets under her breath. An attractive woman with a fondness for gossip, Henriette was the wife of Maximilien’s younger brother Alexandre.

“
Bien sûr,
how Maximilien has changed since their marriage ten years ago,” Henriette whispered with relish. “Before then, he was the most cold-blooded, ruthless man alive. It was said that he did away with his first wife!”

“
Pas vraiment,
” Celia murmured skeptically. Maximilien was an intimidating man, but one had only to see his gentleness with Lysette and his children to know he was incapable of such an act.

“Oh,
sans doute!
Of course, later the suspicion was proved untrue. But in those days everyone believed the worst of him, and with good reason.”

“Why do you say that?” Celia asked.

“He was cruel to everyone. Even Lysette.”

Celia shook her head decisively. “
Non,
Henriette, nothing will make me believe that.”

“It’s true, all too true. Although he is devoted to Lysette now, the only reason he married her was because he
ruined
her.”

“Ruined?” Celia repeated, wondering if she had heard correctly.

“Oh,
oui!
Lysette was engaged to another man, but Maximilien seduced her and dueled with her fiancé. He was a heartless devil in those days. And his son turned out to be just like him—not your husband Philippe, of course, God rest his soul. I’m speaking of the
other.
The twin who ran off. Justin.” She leaned closer and murmured confidentially, “He became a pirate. My husband Alexandre told me so.”

“How disgraceful,” Celia murmured, feeling herself turn pale.

“Yes, isn’t it,” Henriette said, looking pleased. “Didn’t Philippe ever tell you? I’m not surprised—the Vallerands are all very strange about Justin. They never speak of him. I suppose they
wish he’d never been born. His activities could cause terrible trouble for the family. Alexandre says Justin was always a rude, selfish boy.” She sighed sadly. “And Philippe was such an angel, so dear and kind to everyone. Oh, I am not causing you distress, am I?”

“Not at all,” Celia said calmly, while her insides jumped in agitation. No one but she, Maximilien, and Lysette knew the truth of how she had arrived in New Orleans. Maximilien had devised a story to explain her sudden appearance, claiming that a few intrepid sailors from the besieged merchant ship had survived the pirate attack and brought Celia back to safety.

“If Justin’s involvement were known,” Maximilien had said in private to Celia and Lysette, “it would be that much easier for the authorities to set a trap for him. Each time his name arises, there is a surfeit of interest in his whereabouts. The rise in pirate activity is bad for local businesses and certain political careers. I know of several highly placed men who would dearly love to make an example of Justin.”

“I wish they would make an example of Dominic Legare,” Celia said stiffly. “As you know, I have no liking for your son, Monsieur Vallerand. But he is not as cruel and evil as Legare.”

“Of course not,” Lysette interceded gently. “Deep inside there is goodness in Justin, or he would not have put himself in danger by bringing you here,
n’est-ce pas?
”

Celia was silent, her gaze falling to her lap. Lysette knew nothing of what had transpired between Celia and Justin, and Celia intended that she never find out. It was clear that Lysette wished to think well of her stepson, and furthermore, the Vallerands would probably be disgusted
with Celia’s part in what had happened. Goodness, Celia thought contemptuously, was not one of Justin’s dominant qualities. Or hers either. She had not been able to tell the local priest of her horrendous sin during confession, and so she was in no way absolved of it. But how could she confess to another living being that she had slept with her dead husband’s brother—and worse, had found carnal pleasure in the act?

Had the industrious life she led at the Vallerand plantation not been so pleasant, Celia might have considered joining the nuns at the Ursuline Convent. The idea of peace and solitude was very appealing, and she did not intend to marry ever again. Philippe had been her first and only love, and she had no desire to accept a lesser substitute. The Vallerands, however, had given her the privacy the convent would have offered, without the restrictions. And there were Lysette’s red-haired children, Evelina, Angeline, and Rafe, to whom Celia was already becoming something of a
tante.
It was a Creole custom for widows and unmarried spinsters to serve as chaperones for their relatives’ children. The two girls, ages eight and six, often came to visit Celia in the
garçonnière,
a small but charming residence built close to the main house.

Usually the
garçonnière
would have been occupied by the male bachelors and teenage boys of the family, but Lysette and Maximilien’s son Rafael was only an infant, and there were no other Vallerand males living on the plantation. At Lysette’s urging, Celia had redecorated and furnished the dark, masculine
garçonnière
for her own use. Maximilien encouraged her to look through the furniture and artwork that had been stored away in the main house. “Take what you like,”
he said. “Most of it hasn’t been touched in years.”

To her delight, Celia unearthed treasures that were moved immediately to the
garçonnière:
soft green and rose tapestries, crates of lovingly wrapped pink-flowered china, an Italian baroque clock adorned with tiny satyrs, a Louis XV chaise and side chairs, gilded and upholstered in lemonshaded damask. Celia chose delicate patterned paper for the walls and fresh white paint for the woodwork and doors. Soon the
garçonnière
was changed into a comfortable cottage with light, airy rooms. Celia loved every inch of it, especially the parlor with its French glass doors and white marble mantel, and the unusual octagonal-shaped library with its Creole-made furniture.

“You have made this place so beautiful,” Lysette exclaimed as she viewed the results of Celia’s efforts. “You have a way with colors and arrangement, and…
qu’est-ce que c’est?
” She had opened a door to the smallest room in the house, one devoid of furniture except an old rectangular table, a stool, and an easel. No curtains framed the windows; no rugs covered the floor. There were blank canvases stacked against the wall. Sketchbooks, brushes, and paint were scattered over the table. Lysette stared at Celia with surprise. “Max told me you had asked him to bring some supplies from town, but I did not suspect you were an artist.”

Celia’s cheeks flooded with color. “Oh, I am not an artist, not at all. I merely…Well, I enjoy…Oh, please do not look at any of those. I would rather they remain private.”

Lysette withdrew her hand from the closed sketchbook.

Afraid she had offended Lysette, Celia struggled
to explain, her face hot with embarrassment. “No one has ever seen my drawings. They…they are hen scratchings…merely an idle pastime. As a child I liked to paint and sketch, but then my mother died and there was no longer time for me to…” She cleared her throat uncomfortably. “I hope you do not mind that I converted this room. The work I do here is of no merit, not good enough to be seen by anyone, but I find it relaxing and…I could not do it at all if I thought someone might see it. If Philippe were alive I would never have taken it up. He would have insisted on looking at my amateurish efforts, and I could not bear that.”

“Why, Celia…” Lysette’s voice was gentle. “There is no reason to be distressed. You may use this room for any purpose you like. I am glad you have such an interest. I would never do anything to interfere with it.”

“Thank you,” Celia replied almost inaudibly.

Lysette studied her downbent head. “You are a quiet, undemanding person,
chère,
too much so. At times you worry me.”

“I have everything I need…there is no reason to worry.” Celia began to back out of the room before any more could be said. For Lysette, it was natural to lavish affection on those around her. But Celia had been close to only a few people in her life: her father, her brothers and sisters, and Philippe. Only with them had she been able to risk sharing her private thoughts and feelings.

She had written to her father about Philippe’s death and the new life she had found here. Her series of matter-of-fact letters had been answered with sympathetic but equally prosaic replies from her family. Perhaps outsiders would find their attitude odd. The Verités were an unemotional lot,
cool and practical, avoiding displays of sentiment. Her father believed that as long as physical health was maintained, all other concerns were minor. And of all Robert Verité’s children, Celia knew herself to be the most deeply reserved. No one, not even Philippe, had reached the distant and remote part of her heart, the part that would always be locked away from others.