Loe raamatut: «Sapphire»

1

Martinique

French West Indies

April 1831

“One kiss, ma Sapphire douce, one kiss, else I will perish,” the handsome, dark-haired Frenchman declared, bringing both hands to his heart where he stood chest-deep in the pool of crystal blue-green water beneath the waterfall.

Maurice wore nothing but a pair of buff doeskin breeches, soaked through and clinging to his body like a second skin, and the sight of his bare, muscular chest and dripping hair slicked back over his head made Sapphire’s pulse quicken and her knees go weak. “You’ll have to catch me first, Maurice.” She laughed and splashed him, swaying her hips provocatively beneath the transparent shift she wore for her late-afternoon swim.

Maurice lunged forward, his hand striking out, but she turned and dove headlong into the pool, touching the sandy bottom with outstretched fingertips before she came back up, lungs straining for air.

“Got you!” He caught her ankle and began to drag her toward him, running his hands up her bare calf.

“No!” Sapphire squealed, kicking her free leg and laughing. “Release me, kind sir.”

“Not until I have my kiss, fair damsel.” Stepping back, Maurice found his footing on the sandy bottom again and pulled her into his arms.

Surrendering at last, Sapphire looped her arms around his neck and tipped her head back, allowing her wet, waist-length auburn tresses to fall over her shoulders and dip into the water. Closing her eyes, pressing her hips to his, she reveled in the feel of Maurice’s body against hers.

Maurice had caught her eye at a ball last autumn when he and his brother Jacques had returned from school in France to join his father on a neighboring plantation. She’d felt the magic from the first night they met. A few innocent kisses, followed by heated glances across crowded rooms and several furtive meetings, and she’d fallen madly and hopelessly in love with Maurice, and he with her. Visions of a magnificent wedding in the garden at Orchid Manor danced in her head. Her only quandary was convincing dear, sweet Papa that Maurice was the right man for her—the only man for her.

“Sapphire, we should return to the house,” Angelique called from where she and Jacques were floating on their backs by the cliff that enclosed their favorite swimming pool. “If we’re gone too long, Papa will come looking. Remember, we’re supposed to be listening to the baroness’s harpsichord recital.”

Only a year older than Sapphire, Angelique was not only the sister of her heart, but her best friend. The two had been inseparable since Sapphire’s parents adopted Angelique. Though ebony-haired and native born to the island, the daughter of a slave, Angelique’s skin tone merely appeared sun-kissed year round and did not give evidence of her true heritage. “I don’t want to go to dinner and listen to Papa’s boring English guests.” Sapphire pouted, turning to brush her lips against Maurice’s. “I’d much prefer to stay here.”

“Perhaps you should return, ma petite,” Maurice whispered softly in her ear. “I would not want to anger Monsieur Fabergine, my future father-in-law.”

He teased her earlobe with the tip of his tongue, sending little shivers through her body. Despite the warmth of the afternoon, the water was cold and she trembled as unfamiliar and exciting sensations coiled in the pit of her belly, making her nipples grow hard and ache with anticipation.

“Meet me later tonight after your dinner, in our special place, oui?” Maurice suggested huskily in her ear.

She grasped his strong forearms and looked into his eyes. “Yes, and then we shall go riding. I adore riding in the dark, through the jungle and along the beach with only the moon to guide me. It would be a hundred times better if we were together.”

“Or, we could pursue…other diversions.”

Maurice covered her mouth with his and she melted into his arms, sighing. Sapphire was not as generous with her affection as Angelique was, and, unlike the beautiful free-spirited native, she had guarded her virginity carefully. But her resolve was beginning to wane. She was fully a woman and eager to experience all there was to being one. What reason was there to wait? she wondered, light-headed as she finally tore her mouth from his, gasping for breath.

“Come sit on the bank and dry a little before you dress,” Maurice murmured, wrapping his arm around her and guiding her toward the shore. He picked up a blanket and led Sapphire just off the path to a clearing among giant ferns, palm trees swaying overhead. He spread the blanket and took her hand again, easing her down onto the soft carpet of the jungle floor.

“I can only sit a minute.” She smiled, inhaling deeply and savoring the scents of the jungle paradise. “Angelique is right. We should go before Papa finds us.”

“Ah, papas,” Maurice sighed, nuzzling her neck. “They are overprotective of their beautiful daughters, oui?”

She lifted her chin to gaze into his eyes and rested her palm on his broad shoulder. “Oui, at least this father is.” Sapphire brushed her lips against Maurice’s and he closed his arms around her, easing her back to the ground, deepening the kiss. When he again molded his lean body to hers, she felt the evidence of his desire, and heat rose in her cheeks.

Maurice drew his hand lightly over Sapphire’s rib cage, up under her breast, and she sighed. Then he moved his hand slowly over her breast and squeezed gently, bringing a moan from deep in her throat. How could anything so forbidden feel so wonderful?

“Sapphire! Mon dieu! You, sir, remove yourself from my daughter at once!”

“Papa!” Sapphire had not heard the riders until they were upon the clearing beside the pond. She gave Maurice a push as she sat up and crossed her arms over her breasts.

“Bon après-midi, Monsieur Fabergine. How are you this fine afternoon?” Maurice had asked politely, as if nothing had happened.

“How am I?” Armand Fabergine sputtered, dismounting from his fine bay gelding, waving his white leather crop. He was dressed in a riding suit of white knee-length breeches, a white silk shirt, a pale blue coat and expensive boots. Behind him, several male guests on horseback strained their necks to get a look at Sapphire and her lover. “In truth, Mr. Dupree, I am not good,” Armand said in lightly accented English as he pointed to his daughter. “Fille, get up. Get up at once!” His lips were pale, his eyes narrowed in anger.

As Sapphire stood, her father grabbed the blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders.

“And where is Angelique?”

Her father didn’t often become truly angry with her, but he was right now—so angry, sparks seemed to fly from his gray eyes.

“Coming, Papa!” Angelique sang.

“And you,” Armand snapped, looking Maurice up and down with contempt, “are fortunate that I am a civilized man. My father would have shot you down like a dog had you dared to lay a hand on one of my sisters. You had better go from here now, because I cannot promise not to lose my self-control and thrash you.”

“No, Papa!” Sapphire cried.

“You shame me, daughter. Cover yourself!” He glanced over his shoulder. “Please, gentlemen, could you give me a moment?”

The three Englishmen reluctantly backed up their mounts and disappeared behind a giant elephant ear plant.

“Angelique!” Armand called.

“Coming, Papa!”

Out of the corner of her eye, Sapphire saw Jacques duck and disappear under a clump of ferns near the shore. She turned back to look at her father. It was Angelique’s way, even since childhood. She never disobeyed or argued with their parents or Aunt Lucia. She would nod, smile prettily and do what she damn well pleased.

“Papa, you don’t understand,” Sapphire pleaded.

“What is there to understand?” Armand bellowed. “This…this young man, who is no gentleman, has obviously attempted to take advantage of you.”

“No!” Sapphire released one corner of the blanket and stepped back to loop her arm through Maurice’s. “Maurice and I are in love, Papa. He has done no wrong—he would never take advantage of me.”

“Love? What do you know of love?” Armand scoffed, taking a step closer. He had grown thin in the past year and his dark hair had turned almost entirely white, but he still had a voice of authority that made men nervous.

“I should go, mon amour,” Maurice said as he stepped back.

“I think that is wise, Monsieur Dupree, before I forget that I am a gentleman and deliver the painful lesson that you deserve.”

“I will see you later,” Maurice whispered in Sapphire’s ear, and then he turned and hurried back toward the shore to gather his clothing.

Angelique came up the bank already dressed, carrying her slippers. “Papa,” she said sweetly, “we were just going up to the house to prepare for your dinner. I simply cannot wait to wear the new gown you brought for me all the way from London.”

Sapphire took a step toward her father, defiance in her eyes. “You cannot do this to Maurice or to me, Papa. I won’t have it! We’re in love…we’re in love and we intend to marry!”

Armand looked down at her, his jaw firm. “You will not marry Maurice Dupree,” he said coldly. “He is not fit to clean your riding boots.” He turned and strode toward his horse.

“Papa! You can’t just walk away from me. I am not a child any longer and I will not stand to be treated like one!”

Armand put his boot into the stirrup and swung onto his horse. “I am still your father and the lord over this plantation and all who live here,” he told her quietly, staring straight ahead. “You are all my responsibility, which means I will do as I see fit, with my slaves and my daughter. I could lock you in your room or return you to the care of the Good Sisters of the Sacred Heart if I must.”

“You wouldn’t dare send me back to school!” Sapphire shouted after him as he rode away.

“I will not be swayed,” Sapphire insisted as she followed Angelique out of her bedchamber and into the wide, lamp-lit passageway. Orchid Manor had been built by her grandfather in the style of the great French châteaux of the Loire Valley, but he had created an airy West Indies ambience with wide doors and windows that opened from almost every room onto stone patios and lush gardens.

“I won’t do it, Angel.” Sapphire tossed her head as she fastened a pearl earring to her lobe. “When Mama died, he told me I was an adult now and that I would be treated as such.” She lifted the hemline of her new plum-colored silk dress with its fashionable bell-like skirt and low-cut décolleté and ran to catch up. “And now, when I have found a man to love, he speaks of sending me back to the convent school. Never!”

“You mustn’t run or you will ruin your hair.” Angelique reached up and fussed with an auburn pin curl above Sapphire’s ear. “Do not bring up Maurice at dinner this evening. Do not bring him up at all.”

“Not bring him up at all?” Sapphire said sharply. “I want to marry him. We want to be married at once.”

Angelique smoothed the skirt of her pale pink gown. “You should not be so free with your heart. You are young—you’ve much to learn about love. There will be many Maurices who—”

“Not you, too!” Sapphire flared.

“I am on your side, the same as Papa.” She turned toward the music wafting from the garden where the musicians played for her father’s English guests, all business associates. “Come, we don’t want to be late and anger Papa any further. We will talk about this later.”

“You sound just like him,” Sapphire spat. “You have not heard the last of this, you or Papa!”

“Could we have any doubt?” Angelique murmured under her breath as they breezed into the large dining room elegantly furnished in white and blond Louis XIV furniture.

“Ah, my lovely nieces,” Aunt Lucia declared, embracing the young women and leaning toward Sapphire. “What have you done now? I don’t think I’ve ever seen Armand so infuriated.”

“I did nothing wrong!”

Lucia, a round figure of a woman with red hair and a beautiful face for a middle-aged woman, looked to Angelique, who only lifted her brows and shrugged gracefully.

“Come, come,” Aunt Lucia said gaily, brushing back her mountain of lemon-colored satin skirts and petticoats. “Everyone is here and it’s time to be seated. Lady Carlisle’s gown is lovely, oui? And look at the headpiece,” she said with a French accent that always seemed to be stronger when there were guests or strangers about. “Isn’t the little bird tucked in the lace simplement divin?”

“Simply divine,” Sapphire said sweetly, forcing a smile as she walked to her chair near the head of the table. She did not care for Lady Carlisle. Only yesterday morning Sapphire had overheard the countess in the library talking to her friend Lady Morrow. “Monsieur Fabergine is quite charming, but his red-haired daughter is entirely too free-spirited for a young woman. She would do well to have her wings clipped by her father before she is lost to good society forever. I wonder,” Lady Carlisle had continued, “if Armand realizes how difficult such a hoyden will be to marry off?”

“Papa,” Sapphire called, smiling. “Please, everyone sit,” she announced to her father’s guests. “Join us—dinner is served.”

Armand walked behind her chair and eased it out for her. “You look lovely, my dear,” he said. “The color of your new gown becomes you.”

She was still angry with him but her smile turned genuine as she sat and peered up at him over her bare shoulder. “Thank you for the gown, Papa. It is lovely.” She smoothed the skirt as she slid her chair forward.

“A lovely gown for a lovely woman,” he whispered in her ear. “Even if she is a hoyden.”

She looked into his eyes and had to cover her mouth with her hand to avoid giggling aloud. Apparently he had heard about Lady Carlisle’s comment concerning her behavior.

“Merci tellement,” Armand said grandly to his guests, helping Aunt Lucia into her chair before taking his place at the head of the table.

One of the married male guests aided Angelique, Sapphire noticed. All men adored Angelique because she was never argumentative and there was something about her dark beauty that men seemed unable to resist.

“Please,” Armand continued, taking his chair and opening his arms grandly. “Here at Manoir D’orchidée, Orchid Manor as you would say, we are quite informal.”

He waved to one of the new servants, a girl from the village that Sapphire suspected had caught her father’s roving eye. It was a vice of his that her mother had always overlooked; an innate male weakness, Mama called it. Be that as it may, when rumors circulated years ago that Angelique was actually Armand’s daughter by one of the native women, Sapphire had decided that the man she would marry would not have this innate male weakness. She would not stand for it.

The servant girl, Tarasai, who was no older than Sapphire, approached the table, eyes downcast, carrying a large white porcelain soup tureen with gilded handles. With the serving of the tortoise soup, the two-hour-long event of dinner commenced, and as course after course was served and carried out, Sapphire found herself sinking further into her chair.

Since her father’s English guests had arrived a week earlier, dinner conversations had been incredibly dull. The middle-aged men spoke of nothing but crops and their health, and as boring as that was, Sapphire found their talk of gout and the price of cane presses more interesting than the Englishwomen’s tedious conversations concerning London society. Aunt Lucia was quite adept at smiling and nodding and adding a oui or a yes in all the right places, and Angelique occupied herself by flirting with the men in the room, servants and guests, old and young. But Sapphire simply could not feign interest.

Waiting for the next course to be served, Sapphire lifted her gaze upward with a sigh of boredom and focused on the giant crystal chandelier hanging over the dining table. Orchid Manor was quite modern in many ways; the rooms were lit by efficient oil lamps, but her father insisted on using only candlelight in the dining room.

Sapphire heard a quiet whine beneath the table and felt a cold nose push against her hand. She made sure that no one was watching, then tore a piece of bread from her plate and eased it under the table. One of her father’s hounds licked it greedily from her fingers and nuzzled her hand for more.

Lady Morrow, who was the same age and temperament as the fifty-ish Lady Carlisle, was telling Aunt Lucia about a lady who had to dismiss her maid for pilfering soap from the larder. Sapphire rolled her eyes at the pettiness of the conversation and reached for another piece of bread to feed the dog.

Baroness Wells, seated beside Sapphire, met her gaze and smiled. Sapphire liked Patricia. Patricia was a newlywed and she could be quite fun, but she was Lady Carlisle’s niece and, therefore, well under the wretched woman’s thumb. Sapphire had tried several times to convince Patricia to go riding or swimming with her, but each time Lady Carlisle had rejected the idea on the grounds that a white woman was unsafe in the jungles of Martinique. The fact that many aristocratic French families lived quite safely in the area did not seem to be a consideration.

Sapphire offered another piece of bread to the hound, and this time he drew his nose just far enough from beneath the white linen tablecloth for Patricia to see him. Patricia spotted the black nose and lifted her napkin to her mouth to hide her amusement.

Lady Carlisle cleared her throat and Sapphire suddenly realized that the women at the table were all looking at her. Apparently someone had asked her a question, but she’d been too preoccupied with the dog to listen.

“Sapphire, dear,” Aunt Lucia said smoothly, “tell Lady Carlisle about the altar cloths you and Angelique recently embroidered for Father Richmond. I was just telling the countesses how well schooled you were by the nuns.”

“The truth?” Sapphire asked, knowing very well that was not what her aunt was seeking. “Angelique’s cloths were quite lovely, her stitching perfect. Mine were bloodstained from continually pricking my fingers with the damn needle and had to be thrown into the rag bag.”

Lady Morrow and Lady Carlisle gasped simultaneously. Sapphire smiled sweetly while Aunt Lucia tipped her wineglass, draining it in one gulp. After that, the conversation moved to the difficulties the ladies had had shopping for Patricia’s trousseau in Paris before she was married last fall. Sapphire was left to feed the dog the rest of her bread, and Patricia’s, as well.

At last, the final porcelain dish was cleared, and Sapphire rose hoping to slip out of the dining room unseen.

“Dames, would you care to take a turn in my garden?” Armand asked, pointing to the floor-to-ceiling doors left open to the stone patio. “The gentlemen and I thought we would retire to my study for a cigar and then join you for drinks, if it isn’t too cool outside.”

“Cool?” Sapphire groaned, dabbing at her neckline with her napkin before placing it on her plate. “Heavens, Papa. It’s a warm enough night. I doubt we’ll catch a chill.”

He rested his hand on her elbow, smiled and leaned forward. “Please, Sapphire,” he said quietly. “I understand your anger with me, but these are my guests. I do a great deal of business with these gentlemen and it will not harm you to be pleasant to their wives.”

She sighed. “Yes, Papa. I understand. I’m sorry. I’ll send Tarasai for wraps if anyone is chilled.”

“Merci.” He walked away, leading the men through the dining room toward his study, leaving her with no choice but to escort the women out onto the patio.

“Please, ladies, join us for a cordial on the patio. We have some rare orchids I think you’ll find quite beautiful.”

“I’m sorry,” Angelique said sweetly, standing behind her chair. “But I’m not feeling very well. A bit of headache. If you’ll excuse me.”

“Certainly. Yes, of course,” the women murmured at once, full of concern for Angelique.

Sapphire groaned inwardly and called Tarasai to bring refreshments to the orchid garden.

By the time Sapphire walked outside, Aunt Lucia was showing Patricia one of Armand’s hybrids, a stunning pale pink orchid with a deep black center, and the two countesses had their heads together, whispering. In no hurry to join either conversation, Sapphire walked toward a small pond stocked with bright orange goldfish. Gathering her skirts, she crouched and stared into the pool to see if she could catch a flash of orange tail illuminated by the light of the torches placed around the perimeter of the garden that separated it from the vast rain forest.

She didn’t find any fish, but she saw a shiny green frog with orange speckles, and when it hopped off a rock onto the patio, she followed it. As she approached the far side of the garden, she caught part of the countesses’ conversation.

“Naked?” she heard Lady Morrow whisper harshly. “No!”

“Yes,” Lady Carlisle insisted. “That’s what Lord Carlisle said. Well, at least practically so.”

“Shocking,” Lady Morrow said. “And to think poor Monsieur Fabergine has this to deal with while still in mourning.”

“That and the dark-skinned girl. Can you believe she sits at the dining table as if she’s one of them?”

“Dark-skinned? Whatever do you mean? I thought she was a French relation or something.…”

Dismissing the frog, Sapphire raised her chin a notch and strode over to the two women whose heads were bowed as they gossiped. “Excuse me, ladies, but I couldn’t help but overhear that last of your exchange,” she said, looking one directly in the eyes and then the other.

“How rude of you to listen to a conversation you were not invited to be a part of. Have you no manners whatsoever, young lady?” Lady Carlisle demanded. At least Lady Morrow had the decency to avert her gaze in embarrassment.

Sapphire took a step closer to the countess, her eyes flashing with anger. “You speak of manners? My mother always taught me that if one has nothing nice to say, one should not speak at all.”

“What did she know?” Lady Carlisle hissed. “She was a common trollop!”

Stunned by the countess’s comment, Sapphire stared, eyes wide. “My mother was no such thing!”

Lady Carlisle moved closer to Sapphire. “Your mother was nothing but a New Orleans whore, the same as your precious aunt. That is how your father found her!”

“How dare you!” Sapphire shouted.

“Sapphire.” Aunt Lucia appeared at her side, laying her hand gently on her arm. “Please—your father’s guests…”

Sapphire pulled her arm away. “No! Did you…did you hear what she just said about my mother? What she accused you of being?”

“Ask Lady Morrow,” Lady Carlisle said as she drew herself up in her gray flowered gown, her hideous headdress with its bird bobbing as if it were pecking a hole in her head. “Her cousin’s brother knew them in New Orleans. He and Armand were business associates.”

“Edith, that will be quite enough,” Aunt Lucia said sharply.

“It’s not true! It’s a lie! Aunt Lucia, tell them, tell them my mother was not—” But when Sapphire looked at her aunt, she realized something was amiss. Did these women know something she didn’t? “Non,” she whispered in shock.

“Sapphire, ma petite…” Aunt Lucia reached for her hand.

Suddenly the whole garden seemed to spin around Sapphire, the bright torches, the heavy scent of jasmine, the sound of the countess’s sour voices. “It’s not true. None of it is true. It’s all lies!”

“Sapphire, this is complicated,” Lucia said calmly. “Let us go inside and—”

“No!” Sapphire cried, pulling away, her heart pounding in her throat. With tears filling her eyes, she rushed off the patio and ran into the jungle.