Authors: Eugenia Riley
Julian set down his cup, got up
wearily, and walked over to the archway. The servant had finished her
ministrations; Corrine O’Shea had been washed and dressed, her hands folded
over her chest. She looked angelic and peaceful in death. He sighed. He would
have to arrange for burial, and see to it that the servants were provided for.
Most critical, of course, there
was the child. What on earth was he to do about her?
At the sound of a knock at the
front door, the black woman slipped past Julian to the parlor. He watched her
admit the magistrate, Paul Rillieux.
“Julian!” Paul called, spotting
his friend.
“Come in, Paul,” Julian whispered.
He chided himself, wondering why he was being so quiet. The woman was already
dead.
Paul—a small, wiry Creole with a
large mustache—handed the servant his hat and cloak, then crossed the ratty rug
and came to stand beside Julian in the doorway. “I figured you might still be
here,
mon ami
. A good thing I secured the Irishman’s address before you
left Madame Sophie’s.”
Julian nodded tiredly. “Is
everything taken care of?”
“
Oui
. The incident will go
down officially as an accident. I thought that for the sake of your family—and
the Irishman’s—it would be best to say that the incident occurred at a
grogshop. Otherwise, the details will remain the same. The Irishman pulled his
pistol on you, and you had no choice but to defend yourself.” He withdrew a
sheet of folded parchment from his pocket. “All I need is your signature on
this statement, and I’ll consider the matter closed.”
“Of course,” Julian whispered. But
his gaze was still riveted on the dead woman on the bed beyond them.
Paul followed his friend’s gaze;
he paled, crossing himself. “The wife?”
“Dead,” Julian confirmed dully,
stepping farther into the room.
Paul followed him, whistling under
his breath. “
Nom de Dieu
! You mean the miscreant was out debauching,
while his wife was—”
“Yes,” Julian finished. He nodded
toward the far bedroom. “There’s a child, too—a daughter aged nine. Still
asleep, I presume.”
“This is horrible,
mon ami
,”
Paul said passionately. Setting the statement down on the dresser, he touched
his friend’s sleeve. “But not at all your fault.”
Julian laughed bitterly, his eyes
full of guilt. “Not my fault! Whatever way you put it, man, it was my hand that
killed Brendan O’Shea!”
Both men were so involved in the
conversation that neither had seen the small child stealing into the room.
“Papa!” Mercy O’Shea exclaimed. “Papa is dead?”
The two men whirled, both wearing
stunned expressions. Mercy was glaring at Julian with all the vengeance of hell
gleaming in her green eyes. “Dear, I must explain,” he began lamely.
But Mercy was already enraged, and
beyond hearing him. “Papa is dead and you killed him, m’sieur?” She whirled to
the bed. “Mama, this man has—” And then, in horror, she screamed, “Mama!”
The scene that followed was the
stuff of Julian’s nightmares for many months to come. Young Mercy raced to her
mother’s side and beseeched the dead woman piteously, hysterically, demanding
to know why she wouldn’t answer, why her hand was so cold, why she wouldn’t
wake up. When Julian tried to pull her away, Mercy lashed out at him, kicking
and screaming and calling him a murderer.
At last, Paul Rillieux took the
child from Julian. The magistrate staggered under the weight of Mercy’s
surprisingly strong blows. “What are we to do with her, Julian?”
Julian’s crazed eyes met his
friend’s. “Take her to the Gray Ladies at Ursuline Academy. I’ll assume all
financial responsibility. And while you’re gone”—his anguished gaze shifted to
what remained of Corrine O’Shea—“I’ll see to things here.”
“
Bien, mon ami
,” Paul
replied, carrying the flailing, sobbing child from the room.
Julian would never forget Mercy’s
small fist waving over Paul’s shoulder as he carried her out, or the hatred and
the tears shining in her bright green eyes as she screamed out at him again,
“Murderer! I hate you, m’sieur! I shall hate you for the rest of my life!”
The words echoed through the walls
of the unholy purgatory that had already closed around Julian Devereux’s heart.
New Orleans
,
1851
Sitting in the elegant dining room
of his town house on Royal Street, Julian Devereux scowled at the terse missive
he had just received from the mistress of St. Mary’s School:
Monsieur Devereux:
I must see you at once on a matter of great urgency
concerning your ward, Mercy O’Shea.
Mother Anise Simone
With a fierce sigh, Julian tossed
the letter aside and took a sip of his cafe au lait. His breakfast of couscous
and Cajun sausages lay untouched on the fine Paris china plate. He wondered
what the “matter of great urgency” concerning Mercy could be. Certainly, the
girl was a handful, had always been a trial for the good sisters. Still, she
was shaping into a comely young woman.
Quite a comely young woman
,
he amended wryly.
Too bad she still hated him
.
Julian strode into the parlor and
over to the window draped in mauve velvet and Belgian lace. His was a masterful
figure, with the hard-muscled, robust physique of full manhood. He wore an
impeccable brown velvet frock coat, a pleated linen shirt, a black silk cravat,
and fawn-colored trousers tucked into gleaming black boots.
At twenty-nine, Julian sported not
a streak of gray in his thick, jet-black hair; his features were hard-chiseled
and arresting. Yet his blue eyes had lost the warm, trusting glow of youth;
instead they gleamed with the penetrating cynicism of a man who had lost his
illusions.
He idly watched a cala lady go by,
chanting in her patois, entreating the passersby to buy the delicacies piled
high on her sumptuous tray. He observed a dray lumbering past, loaded with
sacks of grain. In the distance he could hear the sweet peal of the cathedral
bells. The mid-May morning was still cool, and the scents drifting in the
window were those intrinsic to New Orleans—French bread and Creole sauces,
mingled with the ever-present odor of garbage rotting in the streets and the
slight saltiness of the air.
He’d best go to St. Mary’s Parish
House, he thought wearily, and see what tempest in a teapot the girl had
stirred up this time. Mercy’s education at the convent was pretty much
concluded anyway, and he must start thinking about her future.
His mind drifted back to the
tragic time when he’d first met Mercy. There had been so many changes, he
mused, since that fateful night nine years ago when the girl had first come
into his life. Following the demise of both of her parents, Julian had taken
responsibility for the child. The municipal court of the Vieux Carré District,
headed by his friend, Paul Rillieux, had been only too eager to dispose of the
matter of Mercy, and had swiftly granted Julian’s petition and appointed him
her guardian. Julian had established her with the Gray Ladies at Ursuline Academy, and later on with the Sisters of Charity at St. Mary’s School. He’d seen
that she never lacked for anything. At first, she’d treated him with blatant
hostility, then with cold suspicion, and finally with a grudging, detached
respect that he knew mirrored a deeper, still-simmering animosity.
In due course, Mother Anise had
told the girl the official version of how her father had died—ostensibly in a
fight in a grogshop—and how the authorities had held her guardian, Julian
Devereux, blameless. No matter. To Mercy O’Shea, Julian would always be the man
who had murdered her father.
It was ironic, he thought. The
girl still believed her father had died in a barroom brawl. To this day, she
had no idea that Brendan O’Shea had also been a murderer—
For the minor wound Brendan had
inflicted on Genevieve Dupree had putrefied, and, two weeks later, she had died
of blood poisoning. Even now, Julian’s eyes gleamed with remembered anguish.
Genevieve had known she was dying, and she had been terrified—beautiful, young,
helpless, burning alive with the fever, sobbing piteously in his arms. And
there had been nothing—
nothing
—Julian could do to save her.
Genevieve’s passing had shattered
Julian’s youthful idealism forever . . .
Afterward, he had gone through a
black period, for several years living the life of a rakehell. He’d gambled, womanized,
and even fought duels beneath the Oaks. He’d quickly gained the reputation of
“Julian the Terrible.” Indeed, a number of Belle New Orleans’s fairest sons had
actually crossed the street to avoid his path, for soon his hair-trigger temper
had become legendary.
Then Julian’s existence as a
libertine had been brought up short when his father had suddenly died of a
heart attack, and Julian had been forced to manage the family’s cotton
commission exchange and supervise his mother’s affairs. A few months later, he
had spotted lovely Justine Begué at a quadroon ball on Chartres Street; at once
he’d been captivated by the beautiful octoroon. He’d installed her in a lavish
bungalow on the Ramparts, and they now had a son together, four-year-old
Arnaud.
A proud light gleamed in Julian’s
eyes at the thought of his child. Ah, how he loved the boy. His son would lack
for nothing, ever; and when Arnaud became a man, Julian would see to it that he
walked among Creole society as a peer.
As for Justine . . . He sighed,
his heart welling with tenderness toward her, and deep regret. At one time,
when he’d discovered Justine was pregnant, he’d even considered marrying her.
But here in New Orleans—alas, the die was cast. In the society in which he
lived, she could be his mistress—but never his wife. Marrying Justine would
have meant fleeing with her to France, away from the restrictive laws and
customs here. It would have meant turning his back on his family forever.
Indeed, when Julian had dared to broach the subject of marriage to Justine with
his mother, she had threatened never to speak to him again, and even Justine
had prevailed upon him to see reason.
“Is there anything you need,
maître
?”
a voice now called from the doorway.
Julian turned to face Henrí. Over
past years, he had come to depend increasingly on the man—as coachman, personal
servant, and even as confidant. He and Henrí were about the same age, and
Julian had often mused that the incident at Sophie Delgado’s bordello nine
years ago had somehow bonded the two of them.
“I’ll be needing the carriage
shortly, Henrí,” Julian replied. “It seems I’ve been summoned to St. Mary’s
School.”
“I’ll bring the coach around at
once.”
“Some nonsense about my ward,
Mercy O’Shea,” Julian continued conversationally. “I’ll swear, she’s as much
trouble at eighteen as she was at nine.”
Henrí wisely did not comment
directly. Instead he said, “You do not see the girl much of late.”
Julian’s eyes narrowed. “That’s
true. But then, she’s indifferent to my presence. She always has been.”
“The young lady has become . . .
quite beautiful,” Henrí went on.
“Quite,” Julian conceded
ironically.
“It is good of you to provide for
her as you have,
maître
.”
Julian laughed bitterly. “Now
those are words I’ll grant you’ll never hear from the young lady’s lips.” He
drew out his finely carved gold watch and flipped it open. “Shall we go?”
***
Mercy O’Shea stood in the walled
garden before St. Mary’s Parish House, anxiously awaiting the arrival of
Philippe Broussard. Seeing him thus was forbidden—but then, Mercy delighted in
breaking the rules the Sisters of Charity had imposed on her at St. Mary’s
School.
Standing next to a blooming
crabapple tree, Mercy prayed that she wouldn’t be spotted by nosy Mother Anise
or well-meaning Sister Clarabelle. She glanced toward the imposing French
Renaissance building beyond her. Noting that no one was about, she quickly
crossed herself and prayed that the nuns would remain busy with matins.
Mercy’s drab gray uniform with
white pinafore blended in well with the natural backdrop, but it could not mask
her blooming beauty. At eighteen, she sported the willowy curves of young
womanhood. She was of above average height, long-waisted, with full breasts and
shapely hips. Her finest feature was a long mane of thick, striking, curly red
hair—which Mercy, in defiance, wore unrestrained, without the traditional,
required schoolgirl’s hat. Mercy’s eyes were the vibrant Irish green of her
father’s, her features the classical perfection of her mother’s. Her nose was
delicate and beautifully boned, her mouth full-lipped and naturally pink. Her
eyelashes were long and richly brown, her brows delicately curved; a rosy glow
colored her high cheekbones. Her perfect oval face was tilted toward the sun,
her ears perked, listening, the lovely, slender column of her throat standing
out in satiny relief.
Hearing a buggy rattle by in the
street beyond the brick wall, Mercy twisted her slender fingers together in
impatience. Oh, when would Philippe arrive? The two of them had been holding
hands at Mass for months now, and when he had proposed a few days ago, Mercy
had cheerfully accepted. Now she couldn’t wait to marry him and get out from
under the rule of the Sisters of Charity. But to do so, she would surely have
to secure the permission of her arrogant, black-tempered guardian, Julian
Devereux—or so Mother Anise had informed her.
Mercy’s jaw tightened in anger as
she thought of Julian. She had never been able to figure out why the man had
taken her under his wing nine years ago—aside from the obvious guilt he must
have felt for killing her father. Even though Mother Anise had long ago
explained to her that Julian had been found blameless in her father’s death,
Mercy would always believe otherwise.
She would never forget that
horrible, cold night when she lost both parents. She would never forget the
conversation she had overheard between Julian and the magistrate, and Julian’s
blood-chilling confession: “Not
my fault! Whatever way you put it, man, it
was my hand that killed Brendan O ’Shea
!”
Even now, the words made her
shudder. Julian’s confession. Julian’s labeling himself a murderer. She knew
that he was from a prominent Creole family, and she had long ago concluded that
his parents must have bribed the local officials to cover up his perfidy. Indeed,
he had always struck Mercy as a man with a secret; and she was almost certain
that dark secret concerned what had really happened to her father.
True, Mercy’s memories of Brendan
O’Shea were not good ones; her father had been bad-tempered, frequently drunk,
and sometimes even abusive. But Mercy refused to think of her father as the
villain. Surely that terrible night, Brendan O’Shea had simply been seeking
some brief solace in a nearby bar when Julian had accosted him; surely, if not
for Julian Devereux, her father would have spent the balance of the night at
his dying wife’s side.
Ever since the time when the court
had appointed Julian her guardian, Mercy’s relationship with him had been
little better than an armed trace. They had brief, perfunctory meetings once a
month or so, usually with one of the nuns in attendance.
The dialogue between them seldom
varied: “You are well, Mercy?”
“
Oui
, m’sieur.”
“Is there anything you need?”
“No, m’sieur.”
“Sister Clarabelle has mentioned that
you’re not applying yourself as you should be.”
“I shall try harder, m’sieur.”
For Mercy, the sessions were ones
of rigid courtesy that masked a deeper, utter contempt. Occasionally, when the
nuns had called upon Julian to admonish Mercy for her recalcitrant behavior,
there had been flare-ups of both their tempers, and even hot-blooded arguments
between them. Their personalities were about as compatible as oil and water.
More often, though, both of them managed to exercise restraint, and a coldly
formal atmosphere prevailed.
During the past year, however,
Mercy had to admit that the emotional climate between her and Julian had
changed somewhat. As she had moved into womanhood, she had been forced to
acknowledge that Julian Devereux was terribly, frightfully handsome. The sight
of him alone knocked her off-balance lately. Sometimes, when his remote,
cynical blue gaze swept over her, she felt an alarming and provocative shiver
sizzle down her spine; she had to struggle mightily not to betray her daunting
response to him. His visits had grown less frequent of late, and consequently
each encounter grew more unnerving to Mercy. This was one reason she had so
encouraged Philippe. He represented escape to her—escape from the sisters, from
Julian, from her new, disquieting feelings toward her guardian, and from all of
her dark, tormenting memories.
Besides, now that she had finished
her studies here, her choices were limited—either marrying or taking the veil.
Even the sisters acknowledged that the latter possibility was ridiculous for
Mercy.
The gate to the
conciergerie
now
swung open, and Philippe Broussard entered. He was a tall, thin, fair-haired
man of twenty, stylishly dressed in a brown suit with a brocade vest. His gold
watch fob glittered on his chest as he approached.
Mercy heaved a huge sigh of
relief. “Philippe!” she called out, gesturing impatiently. “Over here! Quickly,
before one of the sisters spots you.”
Philippe sprinted to Mercy’s side,
caught her close, and planted a quick, chaste kiss on her cheek. “You have
missed me,
n’est-ce pas
?” he asked with a grin.
Mercy lifted her pouting gaze to
his, wishing that his kiss, his hands at her waist, would stir some answering
response in her.
Oh, well,
she mused,
surely those feelings would
come after marriage.
“Philippe, why are you so late?”
“Papa was called away to the
French Market—something about an order of bad fish being delivered—and I was
required to manage the inn in his absence.”