'I'd rather die,' I declared.
The screen door opened, but I couldn't see past Daddy. He hovered over me like a hawk.
'You put one finger on that girl, Jack Landry, and I'll curse you to hell,' Mama declared.
Papa turned quickly and looked at her. 'I was just trying to get her a good husband, woman.'
'Tell that man to go home, Jack. And give him back whatever he gave you,' she added.
'What? Why, he didn't . . .'
'Don't waste your breath on a new lie,' Mama said.
Daddy gazed at her for a moment and then at me. He shook his head. 'Two chicks from the same egg,' he muttered, and went out.
Mama stood there looking at me.
'I'm sorry, Mama. I can't marry Nicolas Paxton.' 'Then let's not talk any more about it,' she declared, and went to put her things away.
Despite what Daddy had tried to do and how much he complained about my refusal to cooperate, the months that followed were the happiest of my life. Daddy finally stopped trying to get me to change my mind and went on about his business, which, more often than not, resulted in some new problem for Mama to solve.
But Pierre and I saw each other more than ever, and every time he appeared, he appeared bearing gifts. Our little love nest filled up with nice things, expensive things: pictures, throw rugs, more clothes for me, and silk robes and slippers for both of us. We ate there more often, poled to the pond, picnicked, made love in the sunlight and in the moonlight, played our music and danced, once until dawn.
Pierre spoke little about his life in New Orleans, occasionally mentioning something he had done with his business, but rarely talking about his wife or his father. I didn't ask questions, although they were always on the tip of my tongue. I knew that they would only bring sadness and pain to him, and we both guarded our pledge to each other religiously. The rule was, anything that would bring sorrow or unhappiness was forbidden from entering these four walls. This was a home for laughter and for love only. Anything else was to wait outside.
But Nature had taught me early in my life that everything has its season. Our romance grew and bloomed, flourished and ripened, with every passing moment, every kiss, every promise in our breaths. Happiness was a bird at full wing, gliding gracefully toward the warm sun.
I knew that clouds do come, that rain must fall, that shadows must darken, and that even though our love was good and pure and full, it wasn't strong enough to withstand the hard, cold truth that lay dormant at our doorstep, waiting like some patient snake, so still it was hard to distinguish from the surroundings, but ready and eager to strike at the first opportunity.
We weren't always careful when we made love. In the beginning our passion was so strong and overwhelming, we could no more hesitate to protect ourselves than we could hold back a hurricane. Afterward, when I had a chance to sit and think, I admitted to myself that it wasn't just carelessness or a devil-may-care attitude. I wanted Pierre's child. I wanted a part of him in me. I wanted to bond us some way forever and ever. Maybe he wanted the same thing.
Unfortunately, I knew the symptoms of pregnancy all too well. I didn't have to ask Mama what this or that meant. It came upon me one afternoon when I realized I was late, and all the other indications announced themselves with clarity and certainty.
Despite my feelings, I was frightened. I had no idea how I would tell Mama, but I thought I must tell Pierre first. He didn't return for nearly two weeks after I realized my condition, and when I saw the blue cravat, I felt a pang of trepidation along with a feeling of happiness.
Early that night when I poled to the Daisy landing and walked to the shack, my body was trembling. Was this the end of our love affair? Would he run from me once he learned what had happened? I couldn't prolong the answer and stop myself from drowning in that all too familiar pool of despair.
He was sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for my arrival. A bottle of wine was opened, more than half of it drunk already. He looked up with a smile.
But before I could blurt out what was happening, he greeted me with his own shocking news.
'Daphne,' he said, 'has found out about us.'
'I didn't think she would even care,' he said after having me sit at the table before telling me. He poured me a glass of wine and one for himself. He paced as he continued. 'All this time I thought she enjoyed the freedom I was giving her, enjoyed her distractions, her charities and causes, her art galerie openings and dinners. She surrounded herself with so many people and lived for the society pages. Whenever I had to travel for business, she was unconcerned and disinterested. She never complained about our being apart.
'Apparently, her lack of interest in me and my affairs was just a smoke screen for her real intentions and actions.'
'What do you mean?' I asked.
'She hired a private detective and had me followed and all this traced,' he said, indicating our love nest. 'Yesterday she came into my office, closed the door behind her, and revealed with glee all she had learned and knew.'
'She knows my name?'
'The smallest details,' he said, nodding. 'She enjoyed rattling them off. Of course, she made threats. She would bring down my family name, destroy the Dumas reputation, but I know she would never do any such thing. She's terrified of putting a spot on her own reputation. The worst thing for Daphne is social embarrassment,' he said confidently, but I couldn't keep the terror from jumping into my heart and bringing goose bumps over my arms.
'Maybe she will do something like that this time. You didn't expect her to have you investigated,' I pointed out.
'No,' he said, shaking his head. 'It's all just a bluff. Right now she's playing the role of an abused wife.'
