Tears of Gold (53 page)

“Did you ever doubt that he was anything less?” Mara asked with a sardonic expression in her eyes as she glanced around the room, not quite able to disguise her own surprise at the rich surroundings she found herself in.

“No, not really, but I’m suspectin’ ye might have at one time,” Jamie retorted, undaunted. “Ye’d best let me help ye out of your gown and loosen that corset. I swear ye’re lookin’ paler than a ghost.”

Mara sighed. “I am rather tired. If I could just lie down for a bit, I’d feel better, and don’t pull my corset so tight this evening, will you, Jamie? My back’s been aching all day long,” Mara complained as she stood still while Jamie helped her undress.

“Haven’t tied it any tighter than usual. Reckon ye just might be eatin’ a might more than ’tis ladylike.”

Mara shrugged, unwilling to pursue the argument. She stretched and breathed deeply as she felt the restrictive corset fall away from her waist. A few minutes later, in just her chemisette and drawers, she settled down on the thick, soft mattress with a grateful sigh.

Mara lay back against the lacy pillows and stared around her pensively. A slight shadow passed over her face as she allowed a worrying doubt to surface, then willed it away as she gazed out through the square panes in the French windows at the tops of the trees beyond. How could her life have taken such a strange turn, she wondered as she now fondly remembered the relatively smooth existence of her life in London with Brendan. How odd it was that now when she looked back on those days they didn’t seem so bad anymore. Mara was jolted from her musings as she heard Paddy’s sneeze, and, focusing her eyes, she saw him standing beside the bed.

“Well, take off your shoes and come on up with me,” she invited him as she patted the empty space beside her, but Paddy needed no encouragement as he quickly removed his shoes; then, glancing quickly, almost apprehensively over his shoulder, he jumped onto the bed and snuggled down next to her.

“Won’t he mind?” Paddy whispered.

“Who?” Mara asked lazily.

“Uncle Nicholas,” Paddy informed her. “He usually sleeps with you, doesn’t he?” Paddy declared with childish bluntness. Mara could feel a hot blush spreading over her skin.

“Well, he won’t now that we are at Beaumarais,” Mara told him a trifle shortly.

“Why?”

“He just won’t, and I don’t want to hear you discussing this matter anymore, or with anyone else. Do you understand, Paddy?” Mara asked him, feeling more uncomfortable than angry.

“I won’t say anything, Mara,” Paddy promised as he sighed and happily rested his dark head against Mara’s shoulder, his eyelids beginning to droop sleepily as he mumbled, “but do you think Uncle Nicholas will be mad that I’m here instead of him?”

Mara smiled as she hugged Paddy’s warm body closer. “No, silly-billy, and what Nicholas doesn’t know can’t hurt him,” she murmured softly as her own eyes began to grow heavy and she felt herself drifting off to sleep.

***

Nicholas hesitated for a moment outside the family cemetery. He pushed open the wrought-iron gate and made his way toward the graves. His mother had died of yellow fever when he was only twelve years old. Two brothers had been stillborn. Nicholas stared down at the smooth marble marking François’s resting place, and then shifted his eyes to the newest headstone. The once-empty plot next to his mother’s was now filled. Philippe de Montaigne-Chantale had joined his wife. What knowledge did you take with you into the grave? he wondered. He caressed the hard stone as if trying to read a sign that might be written there.

He continued looking at his father’s grave and then his brother’s again, and he wondered who had put them there. Why? Whom had you been suspicious of, he asked silently of his father. What truth had you discovered that caused your death?

He looked up at the great house and knew the answer. Beaumarais. He thought of all the years he’d spent traveling the world, seeking escape from his memories, doubt eating away at him until he had, in his weakest moments, believed himself to be a murderer. But his father’s letter had laid those doubts to rest, and now he had faith in himself again.

Who had done it? Celeste? She’d always been jealous of Danielle’s children, especially of her sons. Perhaps she’d thought the child she was carrying at that time was going to be another son for Philippe, and had sought to secure an inheritance for him. But she hadn’t had a son, not then, nor the next time, when Damaris was born. And finally when she did give birth to a son, Philippe died. But Celeste didn’t know much about firearms and always swore they frightened her.

Amaryllis, on the other hand, despite her gentle upbringing, was as good a shot as he was. What would have been her motive? As the fiancée of François, she was already destined to become mistress of Beaumarais one day, and with the lands of Sandrose combined with Beaumarais, she would have been one of the wealthiest women in the state. Recalling the passionate lovemaking they had once shared, he wondered if she had truly loved him so much that she would have murdered his brother in order to have her heart’s desire as well as everything else. But even Amaryllis could not be so evil, or so he tried to convince himself.

If she were not the one, then who? Etienne? Nicholas shook his dark head, dismissing the thought with contempt. Etienne was not interested in owning a vast plantation, for he had sold his own family’s land after he’d inherited it in favor of having the money and freedom to travel. In fact, he was seldom at Beaumarais longer than it took to rest and repack his trunks. Etienne was a gentleman who valued his code of conduct above all else. True, he also enjoyed the finer things in life. As long as he was surrounded by beauty, he had no complaints. Nicholas looked again at the great house, the last rays of the sun gilding it into breathtaking beauty, a beauty that Etienne was almost obsessive about. But
Etienne?
No, he couldn’t believe that. No wiser than before, he walked slowly back to the house, wondering if he could really trust anyone. What did he really know about any of them after over fifteen years? A slightly ironic smile twisted his lips as he realized in amusement that the only one he could trust was Mara O’Flynn. How she would laugh if she could hear his thoughts.

He was still brooding when he entered Mara’s room a few minutes later and found Mara and Paddy together asleep on the bed. Nicholas stopped in surprise, then walked softly over to the bed and gazed down at them in sardonic amusement. Mara O’Flynn was such a strange mixture of woman—and hardly even that for she couldn’t be long out of her teens. He still found it hard to believe sometimes, when he held her close against his heart, that this woman was the Mara O’Flynn he had once sworn vengeance against and set out to destroy. He looked down at her, his eyes lingering on the full lips softened in sleep and slightly curved with pleasant thoughts.

Mara stirred in her sleep, reaching out to enfold Paddy protectively in her arms, and Nicholas felt a strange envy as he watched the naturalness of the gesture and wondered with longing what it would be like to be loved by Mara O’Flynn. For an instant he speculated on how it would be if she responded to him out of love and not just in response to his passion. She never whispered words of love into his ear, nor was there ever a softening of the golden eyes when they stared up into his. Nicholas suddenly felt a desire to know that love, but a second later he contemptuously discarded the idea. Too much unpleasantness had passed between them to allow the delicate nurturing of a real love. Besides, was that something he really wanted?

Nicholas moved closer to the bed and stood silently staring down at Mara as she slept, her breasts moving slightly, all of the old antagonisms wiped clear of her face, and he felt himself reaching out a tentative hand; then he withdrew it as if he’d been burned. He felt the familiar resentment for Mara O’Flynn flare briefly and wondered how he had let this beautiful Irishwoman come to mean so much to him. There she lay like some innocent babe, completely oblivious to the raw emotions that were tearing him up inside, for he couldn’t, nor would he, admit that someone, especially Mara O’Flynn, was important to him. After he’d been driven away from all the people he’d loved, seen them turn their backs on him, he had never allowed himself to feel deeply for anyone. Yet ever since first setting eyes on Mara O’Flynn, he had found himself drawn deeper and deeper into the intrigues surrounding her. Of course, he couldn’t really blame anyone but himself for the position he now found himself in, for he forced her to accompany him to New Orleans, and finally to Beaumarais despite her wishes to the contrary. With a sneer of self-disgust he stepped away from the bed and the tantalizing picture Mara made.

Mara knew nothing of these sentiments as she sat across from Nicholas at the dinner table later that evening and eyed him thoughtfully over her tomato and rice soup. Every so often their eyes met and Mara was disturbed to see the familiar expression of contempt hardening into a jewel-like quality. Mara sighed and glanced away, her gaze lost among the colorful china and crystal that crowded the surface of the table and reflected the glow from the pair of silver candelabra set at each end of the long, oval table. The sideboards were covered with large silver platters full of chicken and lobster salad, baked ham and oysters on the half shell, tenderloin of beef and duck, and assorted vegetable dishes in sauces and gravies. A pastry centerpiece in the shape of a pyramid constructed of nougats and surrounded by squares of marzipan occupied the center of the table.

“Oh, mademoiselle! Your gown,
c’est exquisite
,” Nicole breathed in awe as her dark eyes clung to the delicate black Spanish lace that edged the soft mauve silk of Mara’s dress. “Never have I seen such a beautiful shade of purple before. It is from France,
n’est-ce pas?
Oh, mademoiselle, it would go so well with my coloring, non? Oh, Mama, I must have a gown of that exact color,” Nicole pleaded as she sent an imploring look to Celeste, who had recovered enough to join the family for dinner.

She was still quite pale, the black of her gown accentuating it even more, but she seemed in control of her emotions.

“I cannot bear your whining this evening, Nicole. We will discuss this matter later. Not that you haven’t enough clothes as it is,” she said firmly, ignoring her eldest daughter’s pout and silencing her with a coldly disapproving stare.

“You will forgive my daughter’s somewhat ill-mannered behavior, Mademoiselle O’Flynn, but she becomes carried away in the excitement of her wedding,” Celeste explained somewhat apologetically, then purposefully looked over to Nicholas who was sipping his wine in ruminative silence. “It is a good match for Nicole,” she added. Her thin hands were clasped nervously together in front of her, yet there was a look of determination on her face that Mara had not seen before.

“It has always been considered an honor to marry a de Montaigne-Chantale,” Nicholas commented matter-of-factly, his look focusing on his stepmother’s strained features at the note of defiance in her voice.

Celeste smiled cheerlessly. “Times change, Nicholas, and even though the de Montaigne-Chantale name is an honored one, it is only that. No longer does the name also imply great wealth,” she told him with sad dignity. “If Nicole were not the beauty that she is, then,” Celeste shrugged as if it were obvious, “I would find it hard to marry her off. As it is I am grateful for any offer. Damaris,” she added with a doubtful look at Damaris’s auburn head and elfin features as she made a face at Paddy, “will be most difficult to wed. She is different, with not the classical beauty of Nicole. And she is not wealthy, so what will attract a man to her?”

“Well, I don’t wish to wed any old man anyway,” Damaris said arrogantly, a look of purpose in her greenish eyes. “I’m not going to have time. I’m going to travel all over the world.”

“I believe you shall, my little tiger-cat,” Etienne said fondly. Catching Celeste’s eye, he shook his silvered head. “You are right, she is different. But can you not see that she is special, that your wild little Damaris will one day have an unusual beauty? That, combined with her spirit, will have the men running after her. You will not have to go begging to get offers for her hand, Celeste.”

“It is the long years in between now and this special beauty you speak of that I worry about,” Celeste told him with a note of uncertainty in her voice.

Nicholas frowned at her words, nor had he cared for the note he’d heard in her voice when she’d spoken of Nicole’s upcoming wedding. “I know things are not as they once were, but I did not know that the de Montaigne-Chantale pride was gone as well,” he accused. “You sell Beaumarais land to our neighbors, and does the family now grovel at their feet as well?”

“Oh, Nicholas,” Celeste said tearfully, shaking her head in despair. “You have too much of Philippe in you to ever understand. You have not lived here to see the changes and know that if we are to survive then we must change as well. It is very easy to sit in judgment on us, on me, yes, but you do not know what I have been through, especially now that Philippe is gone. Do you know that all along the river they are already speculating on how long it will take before Beaumarais is reclaimed by the swamp it was stolen from? How can I fight that?” Celeste shook her head. “I cannot manage any longer. We are so in debt, with barely enough money to buy food for the table. You look surprised, but it is the truth. It was vital to sell the land, and to Amaryllis. Who else would want it? She made
me
the offer for it, I did not go begging. But I would have begged rather than see my children grow hungry.” Spots of bright color stained her cheeks.

“How much did you get?” Nicholas asked quietly, and when Celeste told him he swore. “Damn her, she stole it from you, Celeste.”

“Beggars cannot be choosers, can they, Nicholas?” Celeste quoted with bitterness. “And so when she comes tomorrow to buy all of Beaumarais, I shall sell it to her. It is my right,” Celeste added defiantly. “No, let me continue,” she pleaded as Nicholas would have interrupted, his eyes blazing.

“You have returned at your father’s request. So be it. But if you have returned to receive something from the estate, then I am sorry, for there is nothing here for you. You cannot expect us to support you, or give you money, for there is none. What money I receive from Amaryllis for the sale of Beaumarais I shall use to take Jean-Louis and Damaris with me to Charleston. It is my home, it is where
I
belong, not here at Beaumarais, a place where I have seldom known any happiness. Oh, I accepted living here in Louisiana when Philippe was alive. It was different then, but now,” she paused, her eyes brightening suddenly with a fierce determination, “I want to go home. So,” she said with the tired look returning to her gray eyes, “I am sorry, but do not ask anything of me, Nicholas. I can give you nothing.”