Authors: Eugenia Riley
Mercy reeled, feeling sudden
remorse. “Julian—”
“You’ll never forgive or forget,
will you, Mercy?” he cut in savagely. “That’s what all of this is really about.
You’ll never trust me, or see me as anything but a monster. Well, I hope your
hatred keeps you very warm.”
Mercy tried to take back her hateful,
hurtful words, but it was too late. Julian had already stormed out of the room,
slamming the door behind him.
She collapsed onto the mattress,
sobbing into her pillow. Belatedly, she poured out her feelings. “Julian, I
don’t hate you. And I don’t love just what we have in bed. I love
you
.
God help me, I do.”
She wept heartbrokenly for all
they had lost.
Later that morning, Mercy received
a summons from Madelaine Devereux. The terse missive read:
We must have tea,
my dear. My coachman will call for you at two.
In the sunny parlor, Mercy
crumpled the crisp parchment with a frown. She was beginning to suspect that
Julian had inherited much of his imperious nature from his mother. She was
tempted to ignore the peremptory command, but quickly realized she could not do
so. Madelaine did have a right to see her daughter-in-law, although her methods
might be annoying. Still, Mercy knew that it wasn’t fair that she try to vent
her anger at Julian on his mother.
Thus, at two, when the coachman
called, Mercy was ready, dressed in a stylish frock of pale blue silk organza.
As the elderly black man drove her out toward the American District in the open
barouche, she absorbed the familiar sights, sounds, and scents of the Quarter
and wondered if Madelaine was aware of the tensions between herself and Julian.
After all, Julian had gone to visit his mother yesterday. If he had already
informed her of their troubles, that was doubtless the reason for her
invitation.
In the lavish parlor of her home
on Prytania Street, Madelaine Devereux received her daughter-in-law with open
arms. “Darling, you look wonderful—I must say that marriage agrees with you.”
“Thank you, madame.” Mercy took
the chair Madelaine indicated, and watched the older woman seat herself on the
settee. Mercy noted that the widow’s coiffure was embellished by the bejeweled
mother-of-pearl combs she and Julian had purchased for her in St. Louis. The
combs reminded Mercy of happier days, and also reinforced the fact that Julian
had been here before her. She wondered again how much Madelaine knew.
“Well, dear, tell me all about
your honeymoon,” Madelaine directed with a smile.
As Raoul brought in tea, Mercy
dutifully gave Madelaine a dispassionate but thorough account of her travels
with Julian.
Afterward, the widow studied Mercy
with a bemused smile. “But did you enjoy yourself, darling?”
A sudden, riveting vision of
herself and Julian making love in the carriage in St. Louis flashed through
Mercy’s mind. Feeling her cheeks smarting, she lowered her eyes. “
Oui
,
madame.”
“Then why do I get the impression
that much is wrong between you and my son?” Madelaine pursued.
Mercy’s gaze flashed up to
Madelaine, who was studying her with a coolly discerning frown. Suddenly, she
was growing tired of the cat and mouse game she and Julian’s mother seemed to
be playing.
“Actually, madame, I think you’re
already well aware of the reason things are not right between myself and your
son. After all, Julian came here to see you yesterday, no?”
Madelaine sighed. “Yes, dear, he
did. And I must say that I deeply regret his ever telling you about that Begué
woman.”
“Would you have preferred that he
continue to lie to me?” Mercy challenged.
Madelaine shrugged. “Actually,
yes.”
Mercy’s eyes grew enormous.
“Madame, that sort of attitude is reckless and unconscionable!”
But Madelaine merely stirred her
tea and stared at her daughter-in-law with a sad, worldly smile. “My dear, if
such are your feelings, all I can say is that you’ve been living in the convent
far too long.”
“What do you mean?” Mercy asked
irritably.
Madelaine leaned toward the girl.
“Mercy, you’re being hopelessly naive. A number of Creole men have
mistresses—and illegitimate children. The only difference is that most of them,
unlike my idiot son, are wise enough to be discreet about these liaisons and
keep their peccadilloes from their wives.”
“So you’re saying it’s acceptable
for these men to compound their treason with deceit?”
“These things happen, Mercy. Men
cheat on their wives. It seems to be the nature of the male beast. Furthermore,
wise wives simply learn to look the other way.”
“Well, this wife never will!”
A knowing smile curved Madelaine’s
lips. “Why, Mercy. I do believe you’re quite hopelessly in love with my son.”
Mercy nearly dropped her teacup.
She sucked in her breath and managed to stammer, “How could I love a man
who—who treats me in such an abominable fashion?”
Sagaciously, Madelaine murmured,
“Ah, but it’s because you love him that you’re feeling so hurt and jealous
right now.”
Mercy gulped and glanced away.
“Do you want to lose him, Mercy?”
Madelaine asked gently.
She turned to stare at the widow
with anguish-bright eyes. “No.”
Madelaine nodded, reaching out to pat
the girl’s hand. “That is good. Now you must listen carefully, because there is
much at stake here.”
“Yes, madame?” Though her brow was
furrowed, Mercy was prepared to listen.
“Let me tell you a little about
Julian and Justine’s history,” Madelaine said gravely.
She told of how Julian had met
Justine and set her up in housekeeping, how Justine had become pregnant, and
how Julian had rashly decided to marry her. “My son was hopelessly enamored of
the woman,” Madelaine lamented. “When I pointed out the legal and social
ramifications of such a marriage, he simply announced that he would flee with
her to France.”
Mercy was stunned and crushed.
“Then what happened?”
“I informed my son in no uncertain
terms that if he married his octoroon, I would disown him.” She sighed heavily.
“I’m not sure whether my ultimatum had any effect. But finally that Begué woman
managed to convince him to see reason. She refused to marry him, or to flee the
country with him.”
Mercy was staggering beneath the
onslaught of these disclosures. As much as she hated to admit it, she had to
give Julian some credit for behaving honorably, just as she had to give Justine
some acknowledgment for acting prudently. “It was good of Justine to put
Julian’s welfare above her own,” she murmured with a frown.
But Madelaine waved her off,
laughing scornfully. “My dear, that little opportunist is anything but
selfless. The woman doubtless did not want to risk being thrown into jail with
Julian. Nor did she want to start over with him as a pauper in France. After all,” Madelaine continued cynically, “the woman has a tidy existence
established for herself, with her lavish little bungalow on the Ramparts, and
my son supplying her every need.”
“Have you ever . . . met her?”
Mercy asked.
“Certainly not,” Madelaine
retorted. “But I’ve met the child, and I must say, I can understand my son’s
devotion to him. Arnaud is an angel, and I’m deeply fond of him.”
“Oh, madame.” Mercy’s crestfallen
expression more than mirrored her utter devastation.
Madelaine frowned. “Mercy, for
heaven’s sake, don’t sit there mooning like a lovesick lamb. I’ve told you all
of this for a reason.”
“What reason?” she cried. “You’re
telling me that your son loves another, that he wanted to marry the woman? That
they have an adorable child together? What can you expect me to feel, or do?”
Madelaine’s blue eyes—eyes so like
Julian’s—gleamed vehemently. “I expect you to fight for him, girl, especially
now that you’re aware of everything at risk here.”
“But how can I compete with these
others who are so important to him? He has a son with this woman—”
“Then
you
give him a son. A
legitimate heir. As soon as possible.”
Mercy swallowed hard, feeling
horribly anxious and inadequate. What if she couldn’t bear Julian a son?
“And see that he has no reason to
visit this other woman’s bed,” Madelaine continued baldly. When Mercy gasped,
she added, “Forgive me if I’m speaking indelicately, my dear, but this
situation calls for utter candor. My son is a lusty young rogue, it’s true; but
we both know we’re not going to change him. Therefore, it is your duty as his
wife to see that his needs are sated. I realize that you are a proud woman,
Mercy, but you must decide, and decide quickly, what matters to you more—your
pride or your marriage. If you turn my son out and he goes to this Begué
woman—as I assure you, he will—then you have only yourself to blame.”
While Mercy was mortified by
Madelaine’s frankness, she knew that the older woman had spoken the truth. “
Oui
,
madame,” she murmured, her expression deeply troubled.
***
You must decide what matters to
you more—your pride or your marriage.
Madelaine Devereux’s prophetic
words haunted Mercy for the balance of the day. Back at Julian’s town house, she
paced their bedroom and agonized endlessly over Madelaine’s revelations. Her
worst fears were confirmed now.
To think that Julian had offered
to marry Justine and flee with her to France! He had been willing to give up
everything for her—his family, his inheritance, his place in society. It was
all too much to be borne. He must be hopelessly in love with her.
Fight for him
. She recalled
Madelaine’s stern advice. But could she really compete with Julian’s other
family? Moreover, could she accept the fact that he might still visit Justine’s
bed?
Never! Nor did she know if she
could ever live with the reality of these others who claimed such a special
place in his heart.
She thought of the terrible things
she and Julian had said that morning. Even if she could swallow her pride and
fight for him, she wasn’t sure their marriage could ever survive all the hate
and anger they’d already heaped on each other.
***
That night, Julian came to Mercy’s
bed very late—but he didn’t touch her. In the morning, she awakened to find him
gone.
Over the next week, the same
frustrating pattern was repeated. Julian came to her very late and turned his
back on her; each morning, he was gone before first light.
Mercy could easily guess the
reason for Julian’s distance—her cruelly informing him that only the physical
aspect of their marriage pleased her. Doubtless his affronted male pride made
him withhold even his more carnal attentions from her now. She wondered why he
bothered to sleep in their bed at all—and then she recalled their argument over
separate bedrooms. Doubtless, that same deadly pride impelled him to continue
with the illusion of the marriage bed, although it was an empty one. His
message was clear:
I can have you if I choose, but I choose not to.
His message hurt. His distance
hurt. Mercy fretted endlessly, despairing about the impasse in their marriage,
and wondering all the while if he was secretly seeking his ease with Justine.
While her nights were torturous,
her days passed slowly. She occasionally went out, visiting briefly with the
nuns or attending fêtes at the invitation of other young wives she’d met in the
Quarter. She shopped and became better acquainted with the running of Julian’s
household. She even began helping the cook plan the menus—yet Julian was never
there to share the lavish meals the servants laid out in the dining room each
night. Perhaps he took all his suppers with Justine now.
At last, Mercy’s curiosity and
hurt got the better of her, and she decided to go meet Justine Begué in person.
She wasn’t certain what she could accomplish through a face-to-face encounter,
but she did know that she had to discover, once and for all, what she was up
against.
On that morning in late July,
Mercy summoned Henrí into the parlor. Facing Julian’s manservant bravely, she
said, “I wish you to take me to meet Justine Begué.”
Astonishment flickered across
Henrí’s dark brown eyes. “Madame, are you sure this is wise?”
“Whether my actions are wise is
not for you to determine,” Mercy responded archly. “Furthermore, I must ask
that you not tell my husband of the visit.”
Henrí’s handsome features
tightened into a mask of courtesy. “As you wish, madame.”
Henrí dutifully drove Mercy to Rampart Street. While the drive was brief, it afforded Mercy plenty of time to wonder if she
was about to make a complete idiot of herself.
Soon enough, Henrí turned the
coach onto the long lane of small houses which comprised the infamous Ramparts,
where many Creole men kept their mistresses. Henrí stopped the coach before a
neat, if innocuous-looking, cottage halfway down the street.
As Henrí helped her out of the
coach, Mercy studied the slate-roofed bungalow with its whitewashed façade and
green shutters, the potted geraniums lined up across the gallery and the lush
roses lining the path to the front door. No wonder Julian liked to visit this
homey little retreat, she thought achingly.
Her heart pounded in trepidation
as she started up the path with Henrí following her at a respectful distance.
Only the manservant’s presence kept her from turning and fleeing. Again she
bemoaned her own foolishness in coming to see Julian’s mistress.
Too late for second thoughts now,
she mused morosely, as she stood before the carved front door. She hesitated a
moment, then rapped the handsome brass knocker.
In less than a minute, the door
swung open and a lovely woman stood before Mercy. Mercy smothered a gasp; she
had never expected Julian’s mistress to be quite this ravishing!
Tall and statuesque, Justine Begué
looked to be in her mid-twenties and was exotically beautiful. She was dressed
in a ruffled gold taffeta frock complemented by ruby and sapphire rings and a
necklace of stunning topaz; her rich brown hair was piled high on her head.
Justine was gazing at Mercy with
polite curiosity; at last Mercy realized that she was staring quite rudely.
“You are Justine Begué?” she inquired awkwardly.
“
Oui
,” the woman replied in
a deep but feminine voice.
Mercy’s fingers twisted the ties
of her reticule. “I wished to meet you. You see, I’m—”
“You are Julian’s bride, no?”
Justine inquired.