Bayou Bride Read online

  She would put her hair up tonight. That always gave a woman a regal, less approachable appearance. And to carry that idea a step further she would wear a long dress, her white eyelet with the fresh, serene charm of a summer's day. And now, while she was relaxed and calm, she must decide on a subject or two which might provide a fund of conversation, something neither personal nor controversial. Hair style, dress, jewelry, physical attraction, wit. They were weapons, she thought wryly. The weapons women had used for centuries. She prayed they would not fail her.

  The remainder of the afternoon was spent manicuring her nails, polishing them a frosty white, and experimenting with her hair. She settled at last for a feminine mass of curls, an artfully ingenuous style that also lent itself to the atmosphere of the house. After a long bath scented with attar of roses she slipped into her dress and stood surveying the effect in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. She had not remembered that the neckline was quite so low, but her ensemble was fairly close to what she had in mind—not too formal, in good taste, sweet but distant. Peering closer she saw a new awareness in her eyes, a look almost like pain, strange. She felt nothing but determination. She had not the slightest inclination to cry. Not the slightest.

  Reaching out for her compact of eye cosmetics, she tried to erase that look, but if anything the wash of turquoise over her eyelids served to deepen the illusion. Well then, it could not be helped. Perhaps Lucien would not notice. If he did, what of it? Let him suppose it was for the way she was being treated. The result would doubtless be nil, but she would spurn no possible weapon. If that was callous and conniving, then Lucien Villeré had no one to blame but himself.

  Her last act was to pass the gold chain holding the Villeré betrothal ring over her head once more. She had grown used to its familiar weight, used to the idea that if it should prove necessary she could draw the ring from her bodice to support her claim. That she had not yet resorted to such action was due as much to pride as to the knowledge that the claim was false. Plus a suspicion that the presentation of the ring would make little real difference.

  Lifting her chin, Sherry let herself out of her room. She made her way to the living room where the clatter of glassware and cutlery indicated that Marie was setting the table.

  "Très belle, mademoiselle, très, très belle!" Marie exclaimed, laying down a handful of silver and clasping her hands. An instant later, she waved toward a cabinet, obviously posing a question. Sherry smiled and thanked her for the compliment, but she had no idea what the woman was asking of her. They were trying to communicate with gestures while Marie repeated each word slowly and loudly when Lucien came, unheard, into the room.

  "She wants to know, Chérie, if you would like a drink before dinner. If you would she will serve it to us in the salon, or living room—a polite way to remove us from her working area, I suspect."

  "That would be lovely if I could have something tall and fruit flavored,” Sherry said, and waited while Lucien relayed the message. Giving him a smile that obviously surprised him, she accepted his arm and allowed herself to be led back into the living room.

  He seated her in a peacock chair, that thronelike rattan chair of the tropics with its pedestal base and tall, fan-shaped back. Before her was a glass-topped cocktail table with a mass of flowers beneath the glass, the pink and purple of african violets and the brilliant red of episcias. The living room was furnished like an extension of the gallery, using the same furniture of white rattan, though here it was fitted with deep overstuffed cushions. There were a few antique pieces for a touch of permanence, a spice chest, a secretary, and a glass-enclosed bibelot cabinet containing an intriguing assortment of small antiques—snuffboxes, candle snuffers, wick trimmers, and the like. The bright yellow and cool green of the fabrics that had been used gave an effect of sunlight and leaf shadows, one that was heightened by the lush potted palms in jardinieres that flanked the fern, contributing an added tropical note.

  The wood floor was polished to a bright sheen and overlaid with an Oriental rug in a stark white and black design. Overhead was a large crystal chandelier that had been wired for electricity. Its lusters tinkled constantly, like delicate wind chimes, in the draft from the air conditioning.

  Lucien took a chair across from her. Leaning back, he propped an elbow on the arm, surveying her with an expression in his eyes that was as unnerving as it was complimentary. He had changed for the evening also, donning a dark gray vested suit. With it he wore a shirt of some silky material left open at the neck in the Continental fashion. The look of casual elegance suited him.

  Sherry summoned a smile. “It seems to have stopped raining."

  "Yes,” he agreed.

  Now was the time for one of those conversational gambits she had so carefully committed to memory. The only trouble was, she could not recall now what they had been. True enough, she had never been in a situation quite like this one, still it was maddening, the effect this man had upon her usual self-possession.

  Her difficulty was solved by the arrival of Marie with their drinks, a tall, frosty glass of pineapple juice over crushed ice for Sherry, and chilled wine for Lucien. The smile the housekeeper bestowed on them before she moved discreetly from the room once more left Sherry uneasy.

  She took a sip of her drink. It was delicious, fresh, sweet, and tart, without a hint of alcoholic content. And yet, she stared at it with a brooding look in her eyes. “Why,” she said slowly, “do I have the feeling that I am being overpampered and overprotected?"

  "Perhaps because you are oversensitive,” he suggested.

  "Really?” she asked in disbelief. “I don't see how you can say that with Jules following me about this afternoon like a watchdog."

  "You are my guest and he was concerned for your safety."

  "And also, just possibly, for the caning out of your orders?"

  "No, though I cannot accept responsibility for any misconceptions he and Marie may hold, as I told you. They are bayou country people; their lives are spent close to the earth. No one has to explain to them what is between a man and a woman.” She sent him a scathing look which he ignored. “As for your reluctance to stay here with me, I expect they feel it is no concern of theirs. Because they have known and trusted me all their lives, they would be hard to convince that the problem between us is serious, much less a criminal matter. They leave it to me to settle in my own way. They may have a certain curiosity, but they wouldn't dream of interfering, any more than I would interfere in their personal lives."

  "How convenient for you. And I suppose you don't call following me interfering?"

  "Ah, well, Jules knew that it was much more dangerous for you out there among the trees than here in the house with me."

  That was a matter of opinion, Sherry told herself, raising her glass to her lips in an effort to appear calm. Her smile was brittle when she spoke at last. “I suppose I should have expected nothing else, especially when I remember my introduction to Étienne and Estelle at the restaurant last night."

  Was it only last night? It seemed such a long time ago. It was strange to think of so many people with such mistaken ideas. Her employer and fellow workers at the office, thinking she was engaged to Paul. Lucien, certain she was Paul's mistress. Étienne and Estelle just as certain she was Lucien's woman. Paul under the impression that she had failed him, gotten cold feet and backed out on their arrangement, and soon to be foisted off with a tale of a sick friend. Now Marie and Jules, carried away with the idea that she meant something special to Lucien Villeré. When would it all be sorted out. Would it ever be?

  Lucien made no answer to her bitter comment. He drank from his own glass, then sat swirling the liquid it contained, a frown between his eyes. At that sign of preoccupation, Sherry felt her spirits rise. Was it possible that something she had said had penetrated his assurance? With renewed determination, she changed the subject.

  "This is a pleasant place, Bayou's End. Do you come here often?"

  Lucien
roused himself to answer with something of an effort. “I spend most weekends here. That is, I do when I can escape from the social round. Fortunately my mother prefers Paul's escort to mine. They are more congenial."

  She was oddly grateful for his cooperation in leading the conversation away from their situation.

  "You prefer the bayou country to town life?"

  He nodded. “Life is slower here. There is time to think without constant interruption. There is no telephone, no mail service, only peace. If you close your eyes it's almost like going back seventy-five or a hundred years to a more placid time, a time when a man might spend his days in such quiet seclusion."

  "No mail service? What of Jules and Marie? I thought they lived here the year round."

  "They do, but it's too time-consuming and expensive for the postal service to bring their mail this far out. They pick it up at the Post Office in the nearest town, and at the same time they restock the pantry shelves. They make the trip every two or three weeks."

  "I see. And how do they get there?"

  He slanted her a grim smile in recognition of her obvious quest for information. “They use an outboard motor and one of the aluminum boats. Jules has one he rigs with cushions and a sun canopy. It's quite comfortable, or so he assures me."

  "Don't they get lonesome with no neighbors, nothing to do?"

  "I wouldn't know. You must ask them. Tell me, why the concern with Jules and Marie?"

  "Despite everything, I like them."

  "Interesting. Are you always so quick with your likes—and dislikes."

  She was about to answer in the affirmative when she saw his eyes narrow with cynicism. The question was not one she could deny, however.

  "Nearly always,” she answered, and looked up with decided relief as Marie came to call them to dinner.

  "We are honored,” Lucien said as they sat down to the table. It fairly sparkled with china on lace placemats surrounded by gleaming silver and an assortment of water and wine glasses. The centerpiece was of white ginger lilies on a bed of fine-cut fern surmounted by a spray of white orchids with purple throats. The scent of the flowers pervaded the room.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Marie has actually cut a spray of her precious orchids for us. She grows them herself, from a half dozen plants that I gave her once for Christmas. She has always been wild about flowers. The gardens around the house are owing to her, not to any efforts of mine. But if I had known how attached she would be to her orchids, I would have gotten her a dozen more. She cuts them only on what she considers to be special occasions."

  "You mean she cut them on my account? What a waste."

  "I wouldn't call it that,” Lucien corrected. “If it troubles you, try looking on it as simply a form of encouragement for me. You are the first woman I have ever brought here, a state of affairs Marie considers unnatural."

  Sherry, afraid the woman placing their plates before them would be puzzled or hurt by his use of her name in that dry tone of voice, smiled and complimented her on the table. When Lucien translated, Marie thanked her, but she did not linger.

  Course followed course. Small cups of fresh gumbo were replaced by a fresh vegetable salad and tournedos with vegetable side dishes. This was succeeded by a dessert of fresh cherries, carefully pitted, in a brandy sauce flambé, over a dish of rich ice cream. The food was superb, requiring a great deal of attention. This was fortunate, since there was little else to provide a distraction. Lucien retreated into a brooding silence. Lacking the will or the means to draw him out of it, Sherry followed suit. Though she wanted to enjoy the meal, as it progressed her throat seemed to close. It was an effort to swallow or to reach naturally for a sip of water or taste of wine. Her silverware clattered much too loudly against her plate and there appeared to be no graceful way to cut her meat or eat the unwieldy French bread. It was a relief when the entree was removed at last and the dessert was set before them with coffee and a liqueur.

  When Marie had departed once more, Sherry picked up her spoon, frowning at it in sudden doubt of her ability to do justice to the sweet. “Found something on your spoon?” Lucien asked her in a taunting undertone.

  "No—no,” she said. “I was admiring it. It is a beautiful set of silver.” Indeed that had been one of the thoughts that had run, like sand from an hourglass, through her mind.

  "The china, the silver, everything, in fact, that we have used tonight came with the house. It belonged to my great-grandmother. When the house was remodeled it was all found in crates and barrels in the attic."

  "It must be valuable."

  "I suppose so."

  "I'm surprised you or your mother didn't take it home to New Orleans."

  "It—belongs in the house, in any case, my mother was not too excited about the find. She has a great deal of that sort of thing handed down through her family for years, besides the things she had chosen as a part of her own trousseau."

  "But to put it to constant use—I couldn't stand it,” Sherry said with a small shudder and a wry smile for her concern.

  "You needn't think that they are brought out every day; they're not. Marie is apt to hide everything breakable and serve us out of plastic during the hunting and fishing parties we have here. I told you that you were honored."

  Sherry did not know how to answer that any more than she had earlier. She grasped at the first thing that occurred to her. “Your mother—does she come here often?"

  "Just as isolation isn't Paul's idea of perfect happiness, neither is it my mother's. She comes once or twice a year, usually when we have guests or a house party here, and she keeps a few things here in one of the bedrooms, in case the solitary mood strikes her. There is little chance of anyone happening upon us, if that is what you were getting at. You can forget the possibility."

  "It doesn't hurt to know,” she answered. If he thought she was still testing possibilities, she would not disabuse him of the notion.

  "I would have told you if you had asked, and saved you a great deal of trouble."

  "But what would we have found to talk about?” she asked him sweetly, spooning cherries as tasteless as ashes into her mouth.

  "You, perhaps,” he returned.

  "I thought you were certain you knew me—or my type—too well to be interested."

  He was silent a long moment, his eyes resting on her face, then he said slowly, “I might pretend otherwise, for the sake of passing a dull evening."

  "It's my life you would find dull. An average childhood, safe, secure, happy, with a pair of normal, loving parents. They died when I was in high school. The rest you know: secretarial training, and then, because I have always liked the idea of ships and the sea, I applied for a job with Villeré Shipping Lines. You see? Ordinary and boring."

  "Haven't you forgotten something?"

  "I don't think so."

  "What of Paul? Doesn't he rate a mention in the story of your life?"

  For a startled moment she met his dark gaze across the table, then her lashes swept down, concealing her expression. “I've told you before,” she said. “I will not discuss your brother with you."

  "Because there is nothing to discuss?"

  She looked up once more, her blue-green eyes stormy. “Why do you keep coming back to that? Why do you insist there can be nothing serious between us when you admitted you didn't consider Paul bound to Aimee, and must know that he feels little for her at this late date?"

  "I have never known Paul to be able to keep a secret in his life. I see no reason why he should start now, especially with a woman like you. He would never have been quiet about you—your looks, your opinions, your every good point. It would have been impossible to make him be quiet."

  "That's scarcely proof, is it?” she asked, laying down her spoon. “You did say that Paul had mentioned me."

  He nodded. “I got the impression at the time that he was intrigued, but a little discouraged because you seemed immune to his charm. My brother has always been attracted to what he
can't have. His interest usually wanes when he possesses it."

  Sherry drew in her breath as the color drained from her face. “That's an ugly thing to say,” she told him with difficulty, “even if you didn't mean it or believe that it is true. If you did, then it is unforgivable."

  She did not trust herself to stay and wait for his reply. Pushing to her feet, she hurried from the room.

  7

  The soft darkness of the front gallery enclosed her. Though the air was warmer than the artificially cooled confines of the house, it offered a sense of comfort. A faint night wind stirred her curls and fluttered the hem of her dress. It brought with it the smell of dampness from the rain-wet earth and the fresh fragrance of growing things.

  As the heat of the moment drained from her, Sherry's footsteps slowed. She stopped beside a colonette glimmering white in the dimness. The painted wood was cool to the touch, a smooth, rounded support.

  Why had she allowed herself to become so upset? Paul's actions, his feelings for her or lack of them, held no power to hurt her. She had always known that his attitude toward love was light-hearted. Hadn't she kept him at a distance for that very reason? The truth was, it had not been Paul's attitude which had given her such pain. It had been the judgment so carelessly passed upon her by Lucien. That knowledge, under the circumstances, was more disturbing than what he had actually said to her.