Bayou Bride Read online

  "I—exactly what does this jumping the broom mean?"

  "That you are married—to Lucien."

  "Married! I can't be. I don't believe it!"

  A grim look came into Lottie's eyes. “Did Lucien not tell you?” she said. “That is bad, very bad."

  "I don't understand. How can I be married?” Sherry pressed trembling fingers to her temples as she tried to comprehend.

  "It is an old tradition here in the bayou country. It goes back to the old times when the colonies were new. A man and woman in those days were long weary miles from the church or a priest, and nature, Chérie, does not like to wait. To jump the broom together before witnesses was the same as exchanging the sacred vows, a promise made each to the other and strengthened by the blessing of an old one such as Grand'mère Lelia, who wished for you and Lucien joy following every sorrow and many children.” Lottie gave a tiny shrug though her face mirrored her distress for Sherry's ignorance.

  "I can't believe it,” Sherry whispered.

  "Nor I,” Lottie agreed. “It is not like Lucien to mock the traditions of the bayou. There must be a reason."

  "Never mind the reasons,” Sherry said with a shake of her head. She thought she knew them. “This ceremony can't be legal, can it?"

  "The custom has been recognized for over two hundred years in this part of the state. It is not done so much today, but the old ways of doing things die hard. For my niece Sophia and her young man there will be another wedding before the priest.” Lottie went on, her voice suddenly practical. “I tell you what I would do. Lucien Villeré is much of a man; it would be foolish to let him go. If I were you, I would get him before the priest without delay. There is nothing like the words of the good father, and two marriages are little enough to hold the man you have jumped the broom with. That is, if you want to hold him."

  The idea was ridiculous. Of course she did not want hold him, and yet how could she say so, after spending this week with Lucien, without appearing immoral? Moreover, although she might not have to associate with these people again, Lucien would. How could she destroy their simple faith in him and the respect in which he was held? She forced her stiff lips into a smile. “I'm not sure what I want."

  "It is natural to be angry with Lucien,” Lottie said, her sunny nature asserting itself once more. “I would be myself, in your place. But only think what a romantic gesture it was, what a fine surprise!"

  "Yes, it was certainly a surprise,” Sherry agreed.

  "Lucien will not like it that I have told you. It will serve him right though for leaving it until the morning, and for going off to New Orleans without you. Maybe it would be better if you don't tell him I let the cat out. He will enjoy his surprise so much more. Men, eh?” The Cajun woman's mouth quirked in a grin.

  Sherry cast about in her mind for a change of subject. “You saw the boat that came for Lucien this morning, I think you said. Do you know who owns it?"

  "It was a boat much like Lucien's, I think, me, it belongs to his brother, Paul Villeré."

  "I see,” Sherry said quietly. There was no hope of a mistake then.

  Lottie shrugged out of her raincoat and left it to drip on the newel of the stair banister. Before they had settled into their chairs, Marie appeared with coffee and cake. As Sherry lifted her cup she glanced out across the side lawn, her attention caught by a flicker of movement.

  It was Jules, weighted with fishing tackle, making for the boathouse. Apparently he no longer feared that she would try to leave, no longer felt it necessary to guard her. He knew then, and Marie also. That explained the woman's change. Sherry had her approval now that she was the mister's wife. Wife. She couldn't be. She couldn't.

  She settled down to try to behave as normally as possible. She was even able to joke in mock anger of the revenge she would have upon Lucien for leading her into such an alliance. But though she chattered with a forced gaiety for the length of Lottie's visit, the words that rang in her head as she saw the Cajun woman off in her boat at the dock were Lucien's. Only a game, he had said. Only a game.

  She thought of the moment beneath the trees when she had asked Lucien to explain to her what he had meant. Why hadn't she questioned him further? Why hadn't she demanded to know the significance of the jumping of the broom? Was it because she had sensed even then that she would not like the answer?

  She had been tricked; there was no other word for it. The purpose was not hard to see. If she and Paul had really been engaged, her position would now be impossible. Not only had it been made to appear that she had gone away willingly with Lucien, but it must also look as though she had grasped at the flimsiest of excuses to tie him to her, forgetting her supposed fiancée as if he did not exist. It did not make a pretty picture. Further, if in her anger she should decide to try pressing formal charges against Lucien, her public appearance with him could be used to make her seem a liar and a fool.

  And yet, it did not make sense. If this ceremony did in fact have a legal basis, then why would Lucien bind himself to her? To go through a marriage with her, however informal the ceremony may have been, was a ridiculous length to go just to prevent his brother from doing the same thing.

  An annulment. Considering Lucien's behavior the night before, their wedding night if Lottie were to be believed, it seemed likely that a course of action was in his mind. Still, would such legal means be necessary? Was there in truth any legal basis for this so-called marriage? She could not, she would not, believe it. And even if there were, she refused to be bound by a custom she had never heard of until a few hours ago, and still did not fully understand. Nor would she stay here meekly waiting for Lucien to return and dispose of her at his convenience like some unwanted parcel.

  She swung around, staring after Lottie. How stupid she was. If only she had thought to ask if she could go with her. There might have been someone she could hire to take her back to New Orleans. Now it was too late, Lottie was gone. The lake was still once more. The rain had died away, leaving the surface of the water as smooth and gray as polished steel. The only movement was on the far edge where Jules sat in his drifting boat casting for bass.

  There had to be some other means of escape; the only problem was finding it. With luck, she should have twenty-four hours to go about it. There was at least one thing in her favor there had never been before—Jules and Marie's lack of vigilance. Irresistibly, her considering gaze was drawn once more to the boat on the lake.

  A gust of wind swept across the gallery, ruffling Sherry's hair, blowing long strands across her face. Its momentary coolness made her realize how sultry the air had become. The humidity was so oppressive it was hard to breathe. In the southeast was a towering bank of clouds that seemed to be moving with ominous swiftness toward them. Even as she watched, the light began to change, darkening, taking on a sulfurous tint. From the far end of the lake rose an enormous flock of snowy egrets. They swirled higher, as if caught in an updraft, an aerial whirlpool of white birds. Lining out, they flew inland, the beat of their long wings like muffled applause. Hard on their heels was a group of sea gulls. Their breasts were touched with yellow from the peculiar light as they skimmed the tops of the trees, shrieking their displeasure with the high wind that drove them.

  Out on the lake, Jules cranked his motor and sent his boat toward shore. The surface of the lake, smooth an instant before, was now choppy with waves, and the lightweight aluminum craft skimmed over them scattering spray and white flecks of foam. To the south, the trees that ringed the horizon were suddenly blotted out by a dragging gray curtain of rain.

  Ignoring the dock, Jules ran the boat up to the bank, jumped out and pulled it up halfway out of the lake. Leaving it, he made for the house. He was nearly there when the rain caught him. Eyes narrowed, he made the last few yards at a dead run.

  With the sound of the wind and the clashing of the leaves of the oaks in her ears, Sherry had not heard Marie approach. Now the housekeeper moved forward, an anxious tone in her voice as she spoke to her hu
sband. Jules wiped his face on his shirtsleeve before he answered. His tone was grave, his nod back in the direction of the low-hanging clouds over the lake. That their exchange concerned the weather was obvious.

  A burst of wind drove rain in upon them in a spattering sheet. Marie gave a small cry and, swinging around, began to slam the wooden storm shutters closed over the long French windows of the house, barring them on the outside. Jules sprang to help her with Sherry close behind. Still, even as she worked, Sherry did not lose sight of the boat near the edge of the lake. Lying there, slowly filling with water, it represented transportation away from Bayou's End—and freedom.

  12

  Marie was disturbed when Sherry elected to retire to her room instead of staying with her and Jules. The housekeeper seemed to think it was brave but foolhardy of her to prefer the big house to the snug comfort of the small brick kitchen. Sherry finally settled the question by shaking her head with a smile, going into her bedroom, and closing the door behind her. For a few minutes she could hear the sound of Marie and Jules's voices coming from the living room where they had retreated from the fury of the storm, then they faded back toward the rear of the house.

  The rain slashed down and the wind rushed at the house in a furious assault. A darkness like night closed down, darkness that, combined with the shutters over the windows, made it impossible to see without turning on the overhead lights, and these flickered and dimmed as if they would go out any moment.

  Sherry took out her suitcase and began to pack, carefully searching out everything that she had brought with her. She would not leave so much as a hairpin behind. Though she locked her handbag in one of her suitcases for safekeeping, she left a light all-weather coat and a headscarf out on the bed. Ready at last, she put on the coat and tied the scarf over her hair, then picked up her two cases and set them out into the living room. She would have to leave by the front door since this was the only one left unshuttered. For a long moment she stood with her hand on the knob, listening.

  The sound of the wind seemed to be lessening, the storm dying away. It was now or never.

  With a suitcase in each hand she hurried down the steps, taking care not to slip on the wet surface. At the foot she paused for an instant, then made a dash for the boat, her coat flapping and her sandaled feet splashing over the already soaked ground.

  With one foot she tilted the light skiff, letting the water slosh out over the side before she flung her bags info it. Wincing at the hollow thud they made against the metal, she pushed the boat out into the water and, just as it cleared the bank, stepped in. She made her way carefully back to the rear seat just in front of the outboard motor. Ducking her head against the rain already plastering her scarf to her head, she caught the rubber handle, staring at the controls. It had been years since she had run one of these, but after her bout with the cruiser the other day she was sure she could do it.

  She put the shift lever in neutral, set the control on the handle to start, then she pulled on the rope with all her strength. Nothing happened. A chilling fear that the motor was too wet gripped her. Stilling her nerves, she forced herself to think. The choke, she thought, but before she tried to find it, she gave the rope another pull. Like a loyal friend it burst into life.

  The noise racketed around her and she glanced back over her shoulder, expecting to see Jules run from the back of the house. Not that it mattered. With the gap between boat and shore widening by the minute, there was little he could do. Quickly she pushed the lever into reverse, backing out away from the bank far enough for maneuvering room. Then she shifted to forward, turning the throttle for more gas as the motor threatened to stall. It caught and the boat beaded toward the bayou.

  She had made it; she had escaped from Bayou's End, and this time there was no possibility of being stopped at the last moment. Exhilaration bubbled in her veins like wine as she bounced over the choppy waves toward the calmer waters of the bayou. Nothing could stop her.

  Rain spattered the water around her like a thousand tiny pistol shots and splashed in the bottom of the boat. Her feet were soon covered with water, but she did not care. Ignoring the discomfort, she concentrated on what she had to do. Since she could not see very far ahead, she took it fairly slow until she slid beneath the overhanging trees of the bayou that broke the vicious swipe of the rain. After that she speeded up.

  She watched the banks slide past, running with muddy rivulets like thousands of tiny waterfalls. Twigs with green leaves clinging, bits of bark and moss and other fine debris littered the surface of the water. The rain slackened a bit and the trees overhead, their leaves and bark looking fresh washed and new, spattered her with huge drops as she passed beneath them. A windless quiet pressed down, though high overhead the dark clouds still rolled. As Sherry stared about her, an odd shiver ran over her that had nothing to do with the water trickling from her hair.

  A low whistling sound made itself heard above the motor's roar. The tops of the trees began to sway. The silt-yellow water rushing past began to be pocked by rain once more. And then in a rush the storm was back. Wind buffeted the boat, making its course erratic as Sherry fought to keep her hold on the control. Tree branches creaked, bowing toward the water.

  Through a fog of rain and flying debris, she saw ahead of her a place where the bayou divided. The right leg was wider, more open. She swung that way automatically although she could not remember how Lucien had gone the night before. On their trips they had taken sometimes one fork, sometimes the other.

  Her scarf slipped back on her head, and her wet hair was flicked by the wind across her face. She thrust it back, wiping the rain from her eyes. She could feel water creeping down the back of her neck, soaking her dress. Her breathing was deep and labored, as though she had run every step of the way she had come from Bayou's End. Still, despite these things, despite a niggling fear of the wild weather that she could not suppress, she was aware of the primitive attraction of the bayous. The rain streaming from the Spanish moss, the varied colors of green and gray, the hint of hidden danger, the thrashing palmettos, the wild grasses bent and broken by the wind, the swift-moving water, all contributed to the sense of dark, mysterious beauty. In the short time she had been here, it had taken a grip on her imagination from which she was not certain she would ever be free.

  After a time Sherry began to peer ahead, thinking that at any moment she should come upon Lottie and Toro's house squatting in the rain with its rickety dock reaching out into the water. There was nothing to see but the twisting rain-drowned banks, nothing to hear but the pelting of the rain. The malignant thought entered her mind that she might not be able to find Lottie's place on this winding bayou with its many branching channels. The few miles’ distance between the houses that Lottie had mentioned might have meant anything, straight across country or even the use of some Cajun short cut. There were no highway markers to aid or encourage her. And yet, regardless of whether she found the house where she had attended the fais-do-do or not, somewhere along these bayous must live the dozens of other guests who had attended. There had to be a settlement, houses; it could not all be deserted wetland.

  Once again the channel ahead of her diverged and, after a second's hesitation, she swung again to the right. It seemed that New Orleans must lie in that direction somewhere, and she followed that instinct again and yet again as the waterways converged, merged, and divided. She had nothing else to guide her.

  At last she allowed herself to think of what she would do if she did not find someone to help her. She was growing chilled and her clothes clung wetly to her. This last waterway seemed narrow, more narrow than any she had traveled so far. Was it possible for her to become so lost back here in this back country that she could not find her way out? Did it matter? She would brave anything, even becoming lost, before she would go back to face Lucien in his sarcastic anger. He would not like it that she had taken Jules’ boat, and he would be furious when he discovered she had run away from him.

  Or would
he? It was all too likely that he would be glad to find her gone. It would save him the trouble of convincing her she had no choice except to return to St. Louis. He would not have to explain the hopelessness of her position to her, or enumerate all the reasons why it would be better if she did not contact Paul. It would, in fact, eliminate a great deal of bother for him. Perhaps the best revenge, if that was what she wanted, would have been to stay at Bayou's End and force him to use all his carefully designed arguments, to let him take her back to New Orleans with every show of meek compliance, and then to turn the tables on him, revealing to Paul and his mother everything that had happened.

  It was too late for that. In any case, she did not think she could stand seeing Lucien again, being in his company, having to endure the touch of his mouth on hers. All she wanted was to get as far away from him as she could. The first thing she would do when she reached St. Louis would be to contact a lawyer to have this marriage, if it was one, annulled. Her second act would be to give notice at her job. With those two things behind her, she hoped she would then never hear the name of Villeré for the rest of her life.

  There was Paul, of course. She supposed she owed him some sort of explanation. And yet she hated the thought of seeing him. How could he help but remind her of Lucien, of Bayou's End, and of the week she needed desperately to pretend had never happened?

  Lightning crackled overhead and thunder shook the sky. The sound jerked Sherry from her absorption. Brushing raindrops curiously warm and salty from her lashes, she gazed skyward. Blue-black clouds hung just overhead. Outlined against them, the tops of the trees leaned away from the gale-force wind that had increased to a banshee wail. A thrill of apprehension swept through her as lightning seemed to split the heavens, followed by the deafening thunder that indicated its nearness.

  Sherry flinched, ducking her head in a natural reflex action. Her eyes were closed no more than an instant, and yet when she looked up again, there, dead ahead of the boat, was a sawyer, a half-submerged tree limb. She tried to swerve, but it was too late. The boat plowed into the branches. There was a crackling, rending sound, and then the shaft of the motor struck. The boat swung broadside, was caught by the rain-swollen current and overturned.