LISA Page 12

  “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.

  There were strong needs within her, longings impossible to put into words. She felt she would have been safe with Philippe, that he might have eventually come to understand the reckless emotions that were hidden inside her. It haunted her, the question of whether they could ever have found true intimacy together—not just of body, but of soul. Now she would never know.

  Celia never allowed herself to think of Philippe in the hours just before bedtime. If she did, she was certain to have violent dreams in which she would see him drowning, reaching up to her, pleading with her to save him. She would awake drenched in sweat and tears, shaken with the feeling that Philippe was alive, when she knew he was not.

  “No, Vesta.” Celia nudged away the orange cat who was attempting to climb into her lap. Vesta had tired of watching the splashing water in the fountain and had placed a wet paw on her knee. Since Celia had moved into the garçonniére the cat had taken up residence with her. Reconciling herself to the uninvited guest, Celia had named her after the ancient Roman goddess of the hearth. The two of them sat in Celia’s favorite corner of the Vallerand garden, a secluded spot bordered by a double row of lemon trees. Four paths made a rectangle, one side of which was a stone wall. An arched niche and a fountain of graduated basins was built into the wall.

  It was a sunny day with a light breeze, the kind of day that was so common in France and so rare here. Celia pulled off her wide-brimmed black bonnet and tucked one of her feet beneath her contentedly. The pose lacked decorum, but no one was here to see her. She sketched the scene around her idly, letting her mind wander from one daydream to another.

  Annoyed by Celia’s refusal to hold her, Vesta jumped from the bench to Celia’s feet and reclined on her side to clean a white and orange paw. Celia smiled and kicked off one of her slippers, using her toe to tickle the cat’s furry stomach. A loud purr hummed through Vesta’s body. The cat looked up at Celia through half-closed eyes.

  The steady trickle of the water, soothing breeze, and gentle sunlight made Celia drowsy. She leaned back against the wall. Lysette had told her that Philippe had often frequented this place, reading books of philosophy and poetry. Celia tried to imagine him sitting here, the sunlight illuminating the chestnut brown in his dark hair, his body sprawled on the bench, long legs crossed.

  On impulse she began to sketch his face, the lean jaw and high cheekbones, determined nose and heavy slanting brows. His head was set upon a strong neck, his hair brushed back except for the cowlick that caused a few heavy locks to fall over his forehead. The charcoal moved over the paper as if guided by a force other than her own. In a trance, she watched other details taking shape, wide, firm mouth, laugh lines around his eyes, shadows and indentations that had given his face that singular look of confidence and intensity.

  Celia frowned as she surveyed the drawing. Something was wrong…The eyes…They were flat; the shape wasn’t right. She slanted the outside corners upward, darkened the irises until they nearly blotted out the pupils, added heavy strokes to the brows. Chewing on her lower lip, she worked diligently. Finally she held up the sketch and squinted at it, shaking her head. Vesta mewed at her questioningly. “It’s not right,” Celia said aloud. “Not quite. Why can’t I remember how Philippe…”

  Suddenly the paper trembled in her hand. The eyes were more lifelike now…but they did not belong to Philippe. She felt cold sweat collect on her forehead and upper lip. A mocking glint had entered those eyes, and they seemed to stare at her knowingly.

  Look at me, Celia…

  Swallowing with difficulty, she forced herself to let go of the sketch, and it fluttered to the ground. Vesta pounced on it immediately, puncturing the rustling paper with her claws. Celia put a hand to her chest, feeling her heart racing out of control. Don’t be a fool, she told herself fiercely. He’s not here, and you’ll never see him again. How can you upset yourself so easily? But the feeling remained. She closed her eyes.

  Sometimes the memory was as vivid as if it had happened yesterday, the past months dissolving into nothing. She could still feel Justin’s hands closing over her breasts, his thighs pushing hers apart, his hot breath striking her skin. As his body had filled hers he had looked into her eyes, drinking in her intense pleasure. He had made no concession to weakness or fragility—indeed, he had taken ruthless advantage of it. I couldn’t have stopped him had I wanted to, she thought, and flushed with angry confusion. The point was, she hadn’t wanted to stop him, and for that she would always despise herself.

  Celia took the scraps of paper Vesta was toying with and crumpled them in her fist.

  Feeling restless, she deposited her art materials in the garçonnière and went to the kitchen of the main house, which was buzzing with activity. The morning air was saturated with a yeasty smell. Tables were loaded with stone crocks that had been greased with lard and filled with rising bread dough. Women dexterously kneaded and shaped the dough before placing it in sheet-iron molds. Noeline, the Vallerands’ housekeeper for many years, murmured a greeting to Celia as she brought in a tray of flour that had been sunned and aired.

  Lysette was at the bread block in the corner, twisting bits of dough into rolls that would be eaten at dinner. Her daughter Evelina stood over the unbaked loaves, brushing the tops of them with a feather dipped in lard before they were placed in the ovens. Angeline sat at the table gnawing on a heel of crusty bread. Celia smiled as she saw how the daughters resembled their mother, all of them with cinnamon-red hair twisted at the napes of their necks.

  “Tante Celia,” Angeline cried, and hopped down from the table, wrapping her slim arms around Celia’s waist. “We are helping Maman with the bread.”

  “Yes, I can see that,” Celia replied, smoothing the child’s hair.

  “You are not helping,” Evelina said to her younger sister. “You are only eating.”

  Angeline’s face was wreathed in a scowl. “Maman said I could.”

  “Well,” Celia interposed reasonably, “it is necessary for someone to make certain the taste is agreeable, non?” She took the slice of bread from Angeline’s small hand and bit off the corner. “Mmm…What is it the Americans say? It is grand.”

  The little girls giggled and chimed in to correct her pronunciation. Lysette regarded them disapprovingly. “Do not be disrespectful, my girls.”

  “Non, I have asked them to help me,” Celia said with a laugh. “Their English is much better than mine.”

  “It took me a long time to learn the language,” Lysette confessed. “But in New Orleans it is necessary. There are so many Americans here, more and more every year. Of course, some Creoles would never condescend to speak a word of English. They will not even allow it to be spoken in their presence. Max insists that the children be able to speak both. He says it would put them at a disadvantage to be isolated from either culture.”r />
  “Philippe had an ear for languages,” Celia said absently.

  “So does Justin, but…” Lysette stopped in mid-sentence, looking uncomfortable as she saw the other woman flinch. “Pardon, Celia.”

  “It is all right,” Celia murmured.

  “I don’t know why I mentioned him. For the past day or two I have thought about Justin several times. I even saw him in a dream.” Lysette shrugged and smiled whimsically. “Noeline says it’s a sign from a loa.”

  “A sign from what?”

  “You’ll have to ask Noeline to explain,” Lysette said, and put her hands over Evelina’s ears, mouthing the word voodoo.

  Being from a Catholic family, Lysette had no belief in the African and Haitian gods that some slaves—immigrants from Santo Domingo—and some whites from New Orleans worshipped. She did not want to encourage superstition in her children. The voodoo cult had taken root in the city. Each year hundreds of believers gathered on Lake Ponchartrain or the Bayou St. John for a festival to worship their deities.

  Celia hadn’t suspected that Noeline placed credence in voodoo. Driven by curiosity, she ventured outside where the dignified housekeeper was picking up another tray of sun-warmed flour. “Noeline?”

  The elderly black woman lifted her graying head. “Oui, madame?”

  “Could you tell me what a loa is, s’il te plaît?”

  “A loa,” Noeline repeated, setting the tray back on a wide tree stump and straightening her lean form. Her lustrous black eyes twinkled with a smile. “Dere is many diff’rent kind, madame. A loa is a voodoo spirit. Dere is two parts in every loa, good an’ bad. Now Legba keep watch at every crossroad…Legba is god of sin, make de blood run hot…comprenez?”

  Celia nodded, flushing slightly.

  “But Legba also good to take pity on man. Wid Legba’s help, man can maybe ’scape from destiny. Now Erzulie and Damballa—”

  “I understand,” Celia interrupted, before Noeline went on to describe each and every loa she knew of. “Tell me…why did you tell Lysette that her dream about Justin may be a sign from a loa?”

  “De loas work in dreams, madame.” Noeline’s eyes sharpened. “You been havin’ de dream too?”

  “Not about Justin,” Celia replied softly. “About my husband. I keep dreaming he is alive.”

  “Ah.” Noeline tilted her head, regarding her with friendly sympathy. “Dat not from de loa, madame. When a man is gone, dere is emptiness…in de heart, in de bed, c’est vrai? But someday you find a new man to take away de emptiness, and dere will be no more dreams.”

  “I don’t know,” Celia said doubtfully. “I don’t think I’ll ever marry again.”

  Noeline smiled. “Ah’m an ole woman, madame, an’ ah know what you say ain’ gonna happen always happen.”

  That evening the Vallerands hosted a small “at home” for some of their family. A few elderly cousins came to visit, as well as Maximilien’s brother Alexandre and his wife Henriette. They congregated in the parlor and talked uninhibitedly. While the conversation went on, they partook of strong black coffee and baba—a porous cake dipped in rum.

  Celia was quiet, preferring to sit near the corner and listen to the lively exchanges of the family. Often her gaze would linger on Lysette and Maximilien, who sat on the settee. Usually their son would have been put to bed by now, but tonight Rafe was snuggled high against his father’s chest, sleeping peacefully. Occasionally Maximilien would smooth a large hand over the baby’s fuzzy red hair. Celia was touched by his tenderness with the child.

  The guests remained until just past midnight, when the last crumb of cake had been eaten and the last drop of coffee consumed. After handing the baby to Lysette, Maximilien saw Alexandre and Henriette to the door. He turned to see if there were any more guests.

  “All gone,” Lysette said.

  “Thank God.” Max untied his black cravat and let it hang around his neck. He grinned at his wife, who was murmuring softly to the baby. Lysette looked up to meet Max’s golden eyes, and his expression changed. The pair shared an intimate glance that warmed the room several degrees.

  In a flash of discomfort Celia realized she was intruding on a private moment. She cleared her throat. “Er…bonne nuit, I will be leaving now,” she said, conjuring a yawn and heading toward the back of the house. “It was a lovely evening.”

  “Wait,” Max said, dragging his attention away from his wife. “I’ll have Elias or Arnaud escort you to the garçonnière. It’s too late for you to go alone.”

  “Merci, but it is not necessary,” Celia said. “It is only a short distance from the house. I have walked there by myself many evenings.”

  “If you are certain—”

  “Oh yes, yes,” Celia interrupted hastily. “I have no need of company.”

  “Good night,” Lysette said a touch dreamily, turning to carry the baby upstairs.

  Celia left the house with the same restless feeling that had plagued her all day. There was no doubt of what was going to happen between Maximilien and Lysette when they retired to bed. How wonderful it would be to have the security of a husband, a family. Guiltily she tried to banish the envious thoughts from her mind, but she couldn’t.

  Celia stepped on the path that led to the garçonnière. She wondered what it would be like to have Philippe waiting there for her. Her eyes stung. She had never felt so lonely. Even in the years when she and Philippe had been apart, she had known he would come for her someday. Now there was no such comfort. She stared down at the ground while she walked, imagining he was still alive, waiting for her at the cottage door. “I wanted you all evening,” he might have said, wrapping his strong arms around her, brushing his lips over her hair. “I want to take you beneath me…hold you…love you…”

  The image vanished abruptly, and she was left with nothing but the darkness. Crickets chirped, and the breeze rustled through the trees. The night was heavy and black around her. Her heart beat heavily, and she knew in a moment of panic that the cold fear was about to overtake her again, the fear of being alone in the dark that had plagued her ever since her escape from Isle au Corneille. It was something she could not seem to overcome.

  Quickening her step, she focused on the dim outline of the garçonnière, her breath coming hard and fast.

  Something reached around her. Her body jerked in terror. She opened her mouth to scream, but a hand covered her mouth, smothering the sound. She writhed hysterically, her eyes bulging, her body straining against the steely arms that held her immobile.

  A not-quite-familiar voice was at her ear. “Easy, darlin’, easy. Yer in no danger from me. It’s yer old friend Jack Risk. ’Member me?”

  She trembled violently, his words failing to penetrate the blanket of terror around her.

  Risk continued speaking to her softly. “Ye have to help me, darlin’. That’s why I waited for ye to come out. Come now, put some starch in yer knees. I need ye to do somethin’…”

  He froze as he heard the click of a primed revolver and felt the press of cold metal against his temple. A steady voice cut through the silence. “Let go of her, you little bastard. Now.”

  “Jesus,” Risk muttered. His hands eased away from Celia’s waist and mouth. He held his arms well out from his sides.

  Celia stumbled away, sobbing in anguish and relief. She whirled around to see Maximilien holding a gun to Risk’s head.

  The young pirate looked just as he had four months ago, a scarf knotted around his head, a black patch covering his damaged eye. Breeches, boots, and a tattered shirt covered his lean form. Celia’s eyes widened as she saw that one side of his body was soaked with blood. Bon Dieu, had he been wounded?

  “Old Vallerand himself?” Risk inquired gingerly.

  Max ignored the question, his gaze flickering to Celia. “Did he hurt you, petite bru?”

  She shook her head, unable to speak. Her throat had closed up permanently.

  “All right,” Max said calmly. “Go into the main house.” When he saw her
hesitate, he spoke more firmly. “Go on.”

  Step by step she edged toward the house.

  “Before ye do anything,” Risk said to Max, “ye might want to hear me out.”

  “If I don’t kill you for trespassing on my land, I most certainly will for assaulting my daughter-in-law.”

  “It wasn’t an assault, I was—”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “A bloody fool, I am,” Risk muttered, and winced as the gun prodded him lightly. “Th’ name’s Jack Risk.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I come about Cap’n Griffin,” came the sullen reply.

  Celia leaned against the outside wall of the house. The fear began to lessen its clutch on her throat, and she began to breathe easier. She watched intently as Maximilien allowed Risk to turn and face him.

  “…now I wish I’d dumped him in the stinkin’ bayou and got it over quick,” Risk was saying moodily, his posture relaxing into a comfortable slouch. “He’s all shot up, looks like a sieve. Won’t last long, but I thought ye could—”

  “Where is he?” Max asked harshly.

  Risk gestured toward the water. “Down there in th’ pirogue.”

  “Anyone else there?”

  “Nay, not a soul. I swear it on me mother’s grave.”

  The two men started down the incline where the pirogue was moored, and Celia stared after them with wide eyes. Justin was wounded, perhaps dying. Had there been a confrontation with Legare? She wiped her slick palms on her dress and followed Max and Risk, compelled by curiosity and some emotion she dared not name. A twig snapped underneath the toe of her slipper, and Max glanced over his shoulder. Their gazes met, and she paused uncertainly. To her relief, he did not tell her to go back, only turned and continued down to the water’s edge. The men reached the pirogue and stood over it. Max’s shoulders tensed visibly.

  Celia crept to the spot beside Max and caught her breath. Justin was there, his body covered in bloodstained clothes and bandages. He was unconscious, sprawled in an ungainly heap in the center of the tiny boat. His face was turned to the side, but she could see the bristly mass of his beard. One long hand rested palm-up on the wet planking, his fingers curled slightly. It was odd to see him, a man of such vitality and power, reduced to this helpless state. She looked up at Max, who had not said a word. His face could have been carved from marble.