When Strangers Marry (5 page)

“Yes, you would.”

“Should I begin to make plans for it?”

“Someday. If that’s what you want.” He caressed her cheek lightly. “But not yet.”

Thursday was the Vallerands’ usual at-home day, when Irénée’s friends and acquaintances came to visit and chat over a cup of strong chicory-laced coffee. Unfortunately Irénée had been forced to turn away visitors because of Lysette’s presence.

“I am sorry to disrupt your usual habits,” Lysette said.

Irénée shushed her cheerfully. “
Non, non
, we will have coffee together, just the two of us. Right now I find your company far more diverting than that of my friends, who bring the same gossip to chew over week after week. You must tell me all about your mother, and about your friends in Natchez, and about your beaux.”

“Actually, madame, I have led a very secluded life. My sister and I were not allowed to have beaux. In fact, we seldom associated with even our male cousins or relatives.”

Irénée nodded in understanding. “By standards nowadays, that is an old-fashioned upbringing. But it was that way with me. I never read a newspaper until after I was married. I knew nothing of the outside world. It was frightening when the time came to leave the cocoon of my family and assume my place as Victor Vallerand’s wife.” Irénée smiled, her eyes soft with amusement as she remembered the girl she had once been. “My
tante
Marie and my mother accompanied me to my marriage bed and left me there alone to wait for my, husband. Oh, how I begged them to take me back home! I did not want to be a wife at all, much less the wife of a Vallerand. Victor was a big bear of a man, and very intimidating. I was terrified of what he would require of me.”

Intrigued, Lysette set down her cup. “Evidently it turned out well,” she remarked.

Irénée chuckled. “Yes, Victor proved to be a kind husband. I soon fell deeply in love with him. The
Vallerand men are deceptive, you see. Outwardly they are quite masterful and arrogant. However, when managed by the right woman, a Vallerand will go to any lengths to please her.” Picking up an engraved silver spoon, Irénée stirred more sugar into her cup. “There,” she said with satisfaction. “I like my coffee black as the devil and sweet as sin.”

“Madame,” Lysette asked casually, sipping her own coffee, “what was your son’s wife like? In your opinion, did
she
manage him properly?”

The question made Irénée visibly tense. She hesitated a long time before replying. “Corinne was the most beautiful and spoiled girl I have ever encountered…much too concerned about herself to be able to love anyone else. She did not manage Max well at all. And the pity is, it would have taken very little for her to make him happy.”

“It was not a good marriage, then.”

“No,” Irenee said softly. “I don’t believe anyone would say it was.”

To Lysette’s disappointment, she would reveal nothing further about Vallerand’s mysterious late wife.

The entire Vallerand household was disrupted as Justin tried to sneak in the house past midnight, bloodied and battered from a brawl. Max cornered him immediately, dragging him into the kitchen and giving him a scalding lecture. Lysette could hear the clash from her room on the second floor. Overwhelmingly curious, she crept to the top of the stairs and strained to hear their argument.

“You cannot treat me as if I were a child! I’m a man now!”

“So you claim,” came Vallerand’s biting reply. “But a man does not bully others into fighting merely for his own entertainment.”

“It’s not for entertainment,” Justin said hotly.

“Then why do you fight?”

“To prove something!”

“That you’re quick with your fists? That won’t take you far, Justin. Soon you’ll reach the age when fistfights turn to swordplay, and then you’ll have a man’s blood on your hands.”

“Then I’ll be like you, won’t I?”

Startled by the words, Lysette sat on the shadowy top step and listened intently.

“No matter how bad I am, I couldn’t possibly be worse than you,” the boy accused. “I know all about you, Papa. And I know about your plans for Sagesse and Mademoiselle Kersaint.”

A long, nerve-wracking pause followed. Finally Vallerand growled, “I have reasons that you know nothing about.”

“Don’t I?” Justin taunted.

“It seems you’ve heard the rumors.”

“I have heard the truth!”

“No one knows the truth,” Vallerand said flatly.

The boy spat out a hoarse word and ran from the room. Lysette leapt from the stairs and fled back to her bed, scurrying to avoid being caught eavesdropping. When she was safely beneath the covers, she stared blindly into the shadows, wondering if she had heard the boy correctly. What was the word
he had hurled at his father? It had sounded like
murderer.

But that couldn’t be right, she thought, deeply troubled, and her fists curled tightly against the covers.

M
ax was gone all the next day, attending to business in town. In response to Lysette’s questions, Irénée replied that he was meeting with Governor Claiborne.

“How did Monsieur Vallerand become acquainted with the governor?” Lysette asked, fascinated.

Irénée shrugged. “I am not entirely certain, as Max rarely discusses his political activities with me. However, I do know that when Claiborne first took office, he asked my son to help him negotiate with the Creoles and shape his positions to make them acceptable. Like most Americans, the governor does not always understand our way of doing things. And because Max is owed many favors by Creoles
and
Americans, he is often able to persuade them all to agree to Claiborne’s policies. Max also
helps to calm unrest in the city when Claiborne has made a misstep.” She clicked her tongue as she added disapprovingly, “These Americans—such a troublesome people.”

Like most Creoles, Irénée considered Americans to be barbarians, with few exceptions. Rough and unrefined, Americans were preoccupied with money, fond of drinking to excess, and impatient with the Creoles’ leisurely way of doing things.

Only Americans would be tasteless enough to replace the Creoles’ quadrille and cotillion with the reel and jig. Only the hypocritical Americans would criticize the Creole habit of relaxing on Sunday instead of sitting in stiff-backed pews from morning till night.

Later in the morning, Lysette explored the plantation at her leisure, shielding her complexion with a parasol to prevent a detonation of more unwanted freckles. However, her usual energy was sapped by the heat, and she soon became aware of a nagging pain in her temples. Retreating to the house, she turned her attention to the light needlework Irénée had provided. Soon the blazing summer heat seemed to invade even the most shadowy parts of the house. Perspiration glued her garments to her skin, and Lysette pulled at her clothes irritably.

When Irénée retired to take a midday nap, declaring herself fatigued from the heat, Lysette did the same. She trudged into her own room, stripped down to her undergarments, and stretched out on the cool white sheets. A housemaid unrolled the
baire
, a gossamer net that kept mosquitoes away
from the bed. Staring up at the eight-foot-high canopy of the bed, Lysette waited for sleep to overtake her. Although it had been three days since her journey along the bayou, she had still not fully recovered from it. She was exhausted, and she ached down to her very bones.

Quietly Justin slipped into the library, his gaze darting from one end of the room to the other. The library was stuffy in the afternoon heat. Books lined up in endless rows seemed to look down from their shelves like sentinels.

The bulk of Max’s staunch mahogany desk, with all its mysterious drawers and cubbyholes, stood between the draped windows. The sight of it sent a shiver down Justin’s spine. How often he had seen his father sitting at that desk, his head bent over documents and books. The drawers were filed with keys, receipts, papers, and strongboxes—and, Justin hoped, the object he was looking for. Swiftly he moved to the desk and searched it, his fingers peeling through the contents of each drawer.

Justin used the hairpin purloined from Irénée’s room to unlock a small document box. It opened with a protesting click, and he threw a wary glance over his shoulder before looking inside. More receipts, and a letter. An unopened letter. Justin’s eyes glittered with triumph. Carefully he tucked it inside his shirt, closed the box, and put it back where he found it. “This,” he muttered to himself, “will square my account with you,
mon père.
”

*   *   *

Lysette slept well past the supper hour, and Irénée saw to it that she was not interrupted. When she awoke, the room was dark and the coolness of evening had settled. Sluggishly Lysette dressed in a light yellow gown and went downstairs.

“Ah, you have finally awakened,” came Irénée’s buoyant voice. “I thought it better to let you sleep as long as you wished. You must be hungry now, hmm?” The older woman took Lysette’s arm and squeezed it affectionately. “The twins and I have already eaten. Max arrived just a moment ago and is having supper. You may join him in the
salle à manger.
”

The thought of food made Lysette nauseous. “
Non, merci
,” she managed. “I am not hungry.”

“But you must have something.” Irénée propelled her toward the dining room. “We have delicious gumbo, and pompano stuffed with crab, and hot rice cakes—”

“Oh, I can’t,” Lysette said, her throat clenching at the thought of the rich food.

“You must try. You are too thin, my dear.”

As they went into the dining room, Lysette could see Max’s reflection in the gold-framed mirror over the marble fireplace. He was seated at the table, the lamplight gleaming on his raven hair.

“Good evening, mademoiselle.” With the innate courtesy of a Creole gentleman, he stood and assisted her into a chair. “Maman tells me that you have slept for a long time.” He gave her an assessing glance. “Are you feeling well?”

“Yes, quite well. Just not particularly hungry.”

Irénée clucked her tongue. “See that she eats something, Maximilien. I will be in the next room with my embroidery.”

Lysette smiled after the older woman as she left. “Your mother is very strong-willed, monsieur.”

“There is no disputing that,” he agreed wryly.

A housemaid came to set a supper plate before Lysette. Staring at the steaming fish arranged on fried rice cakes, she felt bile rise in her throat. She reached for a glass of water and took a small sip, hoping it would calm her unruly stomach.

“I’ve heard that you met with your friend Mr. Claiborne today,” she remarked.

“Yes.” Max’s white teeth bit into a piece of golden-crusted bread.

“What did you discuss? Or would it be too complicated for a mere female to understand?”

Max grinned briefly at her gibe. “Claiborne’s administration is under siege. He is trying to gather all the information he can before his enemies destroy him.”

“Who are his enemies? The Creoles?”

Max shook his head. “No, not Creoles. Refugees from France and Santo Domingo, and a small but very noisy handful of Americans. Including Aaron Burr, who is in Natchez at this very moment.”

“The former vice president of the United States?”

“Yes. There are rumors that Burr is on a reconnaissance mission to enlist men in a plot to take possession of the Orleans territory.”

“That must make the governor quite agitated.”

Max leaned back in his chair and regarded her
with a lingering smile. “Justifiably so. Claiborne is young and inexperienced. His political adversaries would like to discredit him and separate the territory from the Union.”

“Are you one of those who wish Louisiana to attain statehood?”

“I’m counting on it,” he replied. “When the Americans took over the territory two years ago, I pledged my loyalty to Claiborne. Unfortunately, the Americans have not kept their promise to admit Louisiana into the Union.”

“But why?”

“They claim that our population is not ready for citizenship.”

“I don’t see why…” Lysette began, and broke off as a wave of dizziness swept over her. She shut her eyes, and when she opened them, Max was staring at her closely.

“You’re very pale,” he murmured. “Do you feel ill?”

She shook her head. “I…I’m rather tired, monsieur. Clumsily she pushed back from the table. “If you will excuse me, I will go to my room.”

“Of course.” He helped her up carefully, his large hand cupping her elbow. “I am sorry to be deprived of such a charming supper companion. For a mere female, you manage to keep up with the conversation quite well.”

A brief laugh escaped her, and she smiled into his teasing dark eyes. “I will repay you for that tomorrow, when I am feeling better.”

He held her gaze for a moment, and his hand slid
reluctantly from her arm. “Have a good rest,” he murmured, and remained standing while she left the room.

Lysette’s legs felt leaden as she climbed the stairs. As she entered her room, she put her hand to her face, knowing something was not right. Her skin was covered in cold sweat. More perspiration trickled between her breasts and beneath her bodice, and she longed to strip off her confining clothes.

There was a white square of paper on her bed, having been placed carefully against the pillow. Frowning curiously, Lysette picked it up. Her heart stopped beating as she saw what it was.

“The letter,” she whispered, suddenly finding it hard to breathe. The envelope trembled in her hands. It was her letter to Marie, unopened, undelivered. Vallerand had assured her that it had been sent. Why had he lied? And what was his purpose in keeping it? Oh, God, she had known she couldn’t trust him!

She decided to confront him at once. Her head throbbed with sudden vicious pain, and her back ached from the top of her spine to her hips. White with outrage, she gripped the balustrade in her slippery hand and began the long descent. Halfway down the steps, she saw Vallerand walking out of the dining room.

“Monsieur,” she said, her tongue feeling thick in her mouth. “You have something to explain to me.”

He came to the bottom of the stairs. “Explain what, mademoiselle?”

She held up the letter. “Why did you lie to me?
My letter to Marie…you kept it! You never intended to send it.” She shook her head impatiently to dispel the ringing in her ears. “I don’t understand.” She tried to back away as he began to ascend the stairs. She couldn’t think above the annoying jangling in her head. “St-stay away from me!”

Vallerand’s face was inhumanly calm. “How did you get it?”

“That doesn’t matter. Tell me
why. Now
, damn you! Tell me—” The letter dropped from her nerveless hand, fluttering to the steps. “I am leaving. I would rather be with Sagesse than endure another minute with you.”

“You’re staying,” he said flatly. “I have plans for you.”

“Damn you,” Lysette whispered, her eyes prickling with humiliating tears. “What do you want from me?” She raised her hands to her head in an effort to stop the pounding inside. If only it would stop. If only she could calm herself enough to think.

Suddenly Vallerand’s face changed. “Lysette…” He reached out to steady her swaying form, his hands closing around her waist.

Wildly she pushed at him. “Don’t touch me!”

His hard arm slid around her back. “Let me help you upstairs.”

“No—”

Even as she fought to be free, she felt herself slump against him. Her head fell weakly against his shoulder while her arms hung uselessly at her sides.

“Max?” questioned Irénée, who had come out of the salon when she heard the commotion. Noeline was close behind. “Is something wrong?
Mon Dieu
, what has happened?”

Vallerand didn’t spare her a glance. “Send for the doctor,” he said tersely, and picked Lysette up, hooking his arms underneath her knees and back. He carried her as if she weighed nothing, ignoring her whimpers of protest. “I can walk,” she sobbed, prying at his hands. “Let me down—”

“Hush,” he said softly. “Don’t struggle.”

The trip to her room took only a few seconds, but to Lysette it seemed to last forever. Her cheek rested on his shoulder, while her tears dampened the crisp linen of his shirt. She was hot and nauseous, and wretchedly dizzy. The only solid thing in the world was his hard chest. Somehow, in her misery, she forgot how much she despised him, and was grateful for the steady support of his arms.

For a moment she felt better, but as Vallerand lay her on the bed, the room whirled sickeningly around her. She was falling into suffocating darkness. Blindly she reached out in an effort to save herself. A gentle hand smoothed the hair back from her burning forehead. “Help me,” she whispered.

“It’s all right,
petite.
” His voice was calm and soothing. “I’ll take care of you. No, don’t cry. Hold on to me.”

Fitfully Lysette thrashed to escape the scorching cloud that had descended on her. She tried to explain something to him, and he seemed to understand
her frantic babble. “Yes, I know,” he murmured. “Be still, petite.”

Noeline, who had followed them into the room, looked over Max’s shoulder and shook her head grimly. “Yellow fever,” she said. “It’s bad when it comes on this quick. I’ve seen some walk around healthy one day and drop dead the next.” She sent a pitying glance at the suffering figure on the bed, as if a quick demise were a certainty.

Max threw the housekeeper a thunderous scowl, but he was careful to keep his voice even. “Bring a pitcher of cold water, and some of that powder—what was it we gave the twins when they had it?”

“Calomel and jalap, monsieur.”

“Be quick about it,” he growled, and Noeline left immediately.

Max looked down at Lysette, who was muttering incoherently. Tenderly he disentangled her hands from his shirt and gripped her hot fingers in his.

“Oh, hell,” he muttered, his entire being seized with a dread he hadn’t felt in years, not since the twins had succumbed to the potentially deadly fever. He smoothed her hair again, feeling how wet it was at the roots, and a violent curse escaped him.

Irénée stood behind him. “Her death would certainly foil your plans,
mon fils
,” she said quietly.

He continued to stare at Lysette. “She’s not going to die.”

“The illness has come on too quickly and with too much force,” she murmured. “She is already out of her head with fever.”

“Don’t speak of it around her again,” he said
curtly. “She is going to be well. I won’t allow otherwise.”

“But Max, she cannot understand—”

“She can hear what’s being said.” He stood and glared at her. “Remove her clothes and bathe her with a cool cloth. When the doctor arrives, tell him that he is not to do anything without my permission. I don’t want her bled.”

Irénée nodded, remembering how they had nearly lost Justin during his bout with the fever, when he had been bled too copiously.

Irénée and Noeline took turns sitting with Lysette the first forty-eight hours. Irénée had forgotten the work and patience it required to nurse a yellow fever patient. Her back ached from hours of leaning over the bed and sponging Lysette with cold water. The violent bouts of vomiting, the delirious raving and nightmares, the pungent smell of the vinegar baths they gave her—all of it was repellent and exhausting.