Authors: Kelly Jameson
“There wasn’t the slightest possibility you’d say no. I wouldn’t have allowed it. It was going to happen sooner or later. I had to honor my word to my father and now I have. My obligation is fulfilled. From this moment on, we will remain strangers.” His eyes traveled leisurely over her body, then came back to rest on her face. They burned like the golden glow of a candle at midnight. “Come now, my sweet, tell your new bridegroom how much you love him.”
“You are the most arrogant and impossible man!” Camille said striding angrily through the door connecting their rooms. She had no idea where she was going; any door would do if it led away from him!
She had to turn around to close the door and her mouth dropped as he began removing his shirt. “By the way, that is your room. Goodnight,
Mrs.
Branton. Pleasant dreams, my sweet.”
His deep, masculine voice slid gratingly over her fragile nerves. For the second time that evening, Camille felt an overwhelming desire to hurl something at his arrogant backside—something more solid than peas. And she wished she hadn’t seen that broad expanse of chest, of hard muscle and soft, curling black hair, just before she slammed the door closed.
His physique—the corded muscles, the narrow waist, the powerful shoulders—bespoke of hard, physical work. Yet his hands were not callused. The man was an enigma.
A high-necked white cotton nightgown had been laid out on the bed. She stared at it for a moment, then changed out of her clothes and slipped it on, feeling as if she’d slid into the skin of another woman. This wasn’t happening to her. This wasn’t her life...couldn’t
be her life.
She blew out the candle on the stand next to the bed and lay in the darkness, listening to Nicholas’ movements in the next room. She heard him pacing, then the sound of his boots dropping to the floor. Did he sleep with nothing on? She pulled the covers tighter about her chin.
Then she thought of Christopher and her friend Meagan and she could not stop the flow of tears. She pressed her face into the pillow, crying as quietly as she could until she could cry no more. Hours later, when it was quiet, her heart stopped hammering and she fell into a fitful sleep.
10
Camille was awakened the next morning by the rustling of a servant stoking the fire in the hearth. She had been so angry last evening she hadn’t bothered to take note of her surroundings. The room was done in muted green-gold tones and contained dainty
Maplewood
furniture. It looked like it hadn’t been occupied in a long time.
“I hope I didn’t disturb you miss,” the servant said. “There are a few things in the armoire that you can make use of.”
Camille peered groggily at the young girl. “What’s your name?”
“Molly,” she said smiling shyly as if she weren't used to anyone wanting to know her name.
“Thank you, Molly. You can call me Camille. What time is it?”
“I believe it’s close to 10 o’clock, miss.”
“Oh, it’s late!” Camille exclaimed.
“Breakfast is still being served in the dining room. Would you like help dressing, miss?”
“No, thank you, Molly.” She’d been dressing herself for years…why would she need a servant for that?
Molly nodded her head and left. Camille thumbed through the clothes hanging in the wardrobe and chose a simple green calico dress. There were shoes as well—she chose a simple pair of matching green slippers that were a trifle big on her feet, but not so large that she couldn’t manage.
She made her way to the dining room, and as she approached it, she heard Genevieve’s warm laughter mingled with a child’s. She was relieved to note that Nicholas was not present.
“Good morning Camille, I trust you slept well,” she said, a trace of concern in her eyes. Camille blushed as she realized what everyone would be thinking—that the marriage had been consummated, that Nicholas had taken her to his bed. Apparently, their agreement that the marriage be in name only was between the two of them.
“As well as can be expected,” Camille said.
“I’d like you to meet Arabelle and Damaris,” Genevieve said.
“Wait!” one of the girls cried. “We’re twins. She has to guess
who’s who!”
The ten-year-old girls looked remarkably alike. The one who had spoken had large brown eyes and chestnut-hair threaded with pink ribbon. There was definitely a look of Nicholas about her; her face with its dark brows and impish smile was completely charming.
The other girl turned away from Camille as if disinterested. “We’re getting too old for these silly games,” she said coolly. Her hair was a shade darker, her set eyes a bit deeper in her face. There was something dour about her countenance, and she wore no ribbons in her hair. Camille imagined she could be very pretty if she smiled.
“Well, let's see,” Camille replied. She looked at the girl with the pink ribbons, who spooned a forkful of fried eggs into her mouth.
“You must be Arabelle,” she said, “and you must be Damaris.”
Arabelle squealed with delight. “How did you know?” she asked.
“It was a lucky guess, nothing more,” Damaris said darkly. Camille was amazed that two people could look so alike yet appear to have such different personalities.
Damaris eyed Camille curiously. A twisted smile spread across her face and there was something almost cruel about it. “You’re the lady who fell in the river,” she said. Camille was about to retort that she hadn't
fallen
into the river, t
hen thought that it wouldn't be right
to paint such a callous picture of their father. “And you’re wearing one of my
mama’s dresses.”
Camille felt a twitter of unease. The clothes hanging in the wardrobe...had they belonged to Marlena?
"But she didn't drown like mama," Arabelle added.
Damaris looked sharply at Arabelle. "She didn't drown, Arabelle. If she'd drown, they’d have found her body. And they never did, did they?
"I've heard the servants talk, haven't you? They always think we're not listening because we're children; that we can't understand what they're saying. They say grandfather made her go away because she was a bad woman. They say daddy wanted her dead. One day she disappeared and she never came back…."
Genevieve eyed Damaris sternly. "That kind of talk is inappropriate," she said. "The servants should not be whispering among themselves. And you shouldn't listen to such talk." Damaris just shrugged her shoulders.
"Arabelle, did you know Camille is our new mother? She married daddy last night."
Arabelle grinned broadly. "Is it really true? That would be wonderful!"
"It is true, Arabelle,” Genevieve said, “but now you are both late for your lessons and Mr. Potter won't like that one bit, now will he? There will be plenty of time to get acquainted later. Now run along."
Arabelle happily complied. Damaris lingered for a moment. "Arabelle is…naïve," she said, struggling with the word. "But I'm not. I don't
want
a new mother. Maybe daddy will send you
away too."
She left the room and Genevieve apologized for her behavior. "You see, Camille, the…tragedy…affected her more deeply than Arabelle. Arabelle is a sunny-natured child and Damaris, well Damaris takes some getting used to."
Though she longed to know more about what happened to Nicholas' first wife, she didn't want to pry. "I lost my parents when I was very young," she said and quickly changed the subject. "Will Nicholas be joining us?" she asked, hoping Genevieve didn’t notice the catch in her voice.
Genevieve shook her head. "No, he's gone into the city on business and will not return until tomorrow."
"In that case, I thought I might return to the city today to collect my things." Camille desperately wanted to see Meagan, to make sure she was all right.
"I'll have the coach brought around after breakfast,” Genevieve said. She laid her hand on Camille's shoulder. "I know you must feel a bit out of place right now, but everything will work out. You'll see. I'm sorry to leave you so soon, but I must check on one of the servants. She just had a baby and it was a difficult time." She smiled and left Camille to eat breakfast while the coach was summoned.
Later, as the black-lacquered coach rambled toward the city, Camille was suddenly struck with the thought that she was a
wife
, and Dear God, expected to be a mother to his
twin daughters. Already Damaris resented her presence. She’d failed miserably in her quest to avoid this marriage, and that wide-shouldered, black-haired blue-blood was to blame. If he hadn’t been so insistent on honoring his father’s dying wish…if she hadn’t feared Meletios’ meaty fists so much…. Perhaps it would have been preferable to suffer a beating. Camille shivered.
And Dear God, what about Christopher? There had been no time to write to him, to plead with him to come and put a stop to the marriage. Perhaps if she wrote to him as soon as she could, begged him to come for her, Nicholas wouldn’t care. He’d said it would be a marriage in name only. As long as she was discreet, they could meet and...and do whatever it was that lovers did in secret. The thought gave her hope. It was the only promise of love she’d ever had, and she was going to hold onto it.
11
Nicholas sat staring out the second story window of his shipping offices. The streets below were gutted with carriages and people hurrying about in the muddied streets. Try as he might, he could not concentrate on the tasks at hand and that was due to the green-eyed vixen he'd married last night.
The truth was, for the better part of the day, he'd been putting off a most unpleasant task—speaking to the girl's uncle. He wanted to know more about Penley’s relationship with his father, wanted to make a few things clear to the man as well.
It was growing toward dusk and he wanted to get that over with then spend a night lavishly satisfying his passions with his mistress. He may be a married man now, but it was in name only and he had no plans to deny himself his pleasures.
Slinging his jacket over a shoulder, he headed downstairs, determined to find out more about Camille and the arrangement his father had made with her uncle.
The slight breeze coming off the water stroked his dark hair as he walked along the crowded streets toward The Black Garter, lost in his own thoughts. His head came up sharply when he noticed the coach with the Branton family emblem blazed on the sides.
"Damn me!" he said, picking up his pace.
12
There was nothing special about the bawdy river house—it was a far cry from the fashionable cabarets and bordellos, the ballrooms, theaters, and cafes of the Vieux Carre, but at least it was not sunk so low as those establishments above Canal Street.
It was a two-story shack with a low gabled roof, built of rough cypress planks from old flatboats. Mostly it was the local riff raff who came in, just as they were, looking for a hot, greasy meal, a cold spurt of ale, and a good game of cards.
It was a favorite resort of river men, thieves, footpads, firebugs, even pirates. Occasionally the more legitimate citizens of the town would wander in by mistake. Mother Stephens, a waddling old harridan, had run the place for years.
The room that opened onto the street was the bar, and behind that was a large chamber with tables set up for gambling. One corner of the room was partitioned off by thin boards and served as a kitchen, dining room, and sleeping quarters; another corner was divided by curtains into smaller rooms where guests, upon payment of a picayune, might repair with women of the evening.
Outside, a church overlooked the water. There was an old abbey where one could still see the occasional gaunt figure clad in a loose habit of coarse, brown cloth with a hempen girdle about his waist and wooden sandals on his feet.
There was also a watch house, a prison, a hospital, and an arsenal. Then there were the beautiful three-story brick homes with their tiled roofs and courtyards and patios and narrow gardens with latticework. Now, after the events of the last twenty-four hours, it all seemed different to Camille. She didn’t belong here; she didn’t belong in Nicholas’ world.
She pushed aside the curtain and gasped at the sight that greeted her. “Meagan, my God!” Meagan lay in the bed, the right side of her face puffy and blue, her right eye swollen shut.
Camille kneeled by the side of the bed and stroked Meagan’s hair. “You should’ve told him everything, Meg. You shouldn’t have held out. My God, I never thought he would resort to this.”
A tear slid down Meagan’s face. “Oh, but it hurts even to cry. I’m so sorry.”
Camille frowned. “I’m going to help you. I’ll explain everything later, but I have some money now.” She put it in Meagan’s fist. “I’m sending for a doctor. And just let Mother Stephens try and stop me. There'll be enough left over for you to get away from this place eventually.”