Only With Your Love (Vallerands #2)(35)

“Stubborn fool,” Maximilien said quietly. “I made unforgivable mistakes with you and Philippe. Mistakes you’ve had to pay for. The sins of the father…but even now it’s not too late. Let me help you. You underestimate me in many ways, mon fils. I understand more than you think.”

There was an iron grip on Justin’s insides that would not let go. For too long his survival had depended on suppressing any softness in himself. He couldn’t accept anything from his father, from anyone. He needed no one.

“Goodbye, Father,” he said, not meeting Maximilien’s eyes.

“Justin, wait—”

“God be with you.” With that, he slipped outside, making his way back to the pirogue and the bayou.

Chapter 6

September, 1817

“Regardes, I have put on weight.” Celia twisted to view her reflection. She hadn’t looked closely at herself in a long while, only glanced in the mirror to neaten her hair or straighten her clothes. Some time during the past four months of living with the Vallerands, the frailty had gone from her arms and the hollows had left her face and neck. Even her br**sts, which had been small and flat before, had developed a nicely rounded appearance.

Lysette smile, watching as a seamstress adjusted and pinned the hem of another black gown for Celia. “You were so dreadfully thin when you first came to us,” she said. “I’m glad to see Berté’s cooking has had such a good effect.”

Celia twisted again, raising her eyebrows as she saw how the bombazine silk draped over her curving h*ps and bu**ocks. The gown was fashionably high-waisted and collarless, trimmed at the neckline and shoulders with black jet beads. The skirt flowed gently from her h*ps to the ground, concealing her ankles and feet. She took an experimental breath, watching as the bodice of the gown tightened over her br**sts.

“Hold still, madame,” the seamstress requested.

Celia made a face. “Soon I won’t be able to wear any of my gowns.”

“That will be a long time coming,” Lysette said dryly, and approached the standing mirror to appraise her own reflection critically. “I, on the other hand, must regain the figure I lost with Rafael.” She beamed at the chubby red-haired infant on the floor, who was playing with swatches of fabric. “You were worth every pound, darling. Do not listen to Maman.”

The seamstress, a pretty young Irish girl named Briony, paused and spoke through the pins in her mouth. “Monsieur Valleyrand wouldna change a hair on yer head, madame.”

Lysette laughed and shook her head. “Max is not a fit judge of my figure. He loves me.”

Celia smiled slightly, thinking to herself that there was no need for Lysette to take off an ounce. She was a petite Venus, voluptuous and perfectly proportioned. With her red hair and vivacious nature, she was as vibrant as a flame. It was not difficult to see why even a man as powerful and aloof as Maximilien Vallerand was wrapped around her finger.

“Max doesn’t like to see me in black,” Lysette said with a sigh, returning to the brocaded settee and picking up a tiny pair of pantalets she was mending for one of her two young daughters. “All last year we were in mourning because of the passing of his mother Irénée. And now…” A touch of melancholy entered her expression, and Celia knew she was thinking of Philippe.

The mourning period would last for another eight months, during which the adult members of the Vallerand family would wear nothing but black. And for a long time afterward, Celia would not be able to dress in anything but somber shades of lavender and gray. There were Creole customs Celia had to observe strictly, or she would face the censure of New Orleans. When she wrote letters, the border of the paper was black. She wore no jewelry except for a jet brooch, and when she ventured out in public, her hair and face were concealed behind a dark crepe veil. Even the buttons on her clothes were small and dull-surfaced. The social functions she was allowed to attend were limited, and she had no interactions with men.

Celia found the isolation no hardship. She welcomed the privacy she found on the plantation. For her the days held a serenity she sorely needed. Lately Lysette, a sociable creature with many friends, both Creole and American, had tried to persuade her out of her solitude. But Celia didn’t need anyone to gossip with or confide in, and she didn’t want to take part in family gatherings. All she needed was work with which to occupy herself and time to reconcile herself to Philippe’s death.

There were countless chores Celia helped with at the plantation, which was a small world in itself. The women made wine, butter, bread, preserves, and sausage; put up vegetables; and kept detailed books of supplies to be purchased. Making soap and candles required a full day of labor each month. There were always glassware, silver, and china to be washed and polished, not to mention carpets to be cleaned and laundering to be supervised. The one task that seemed endless was needlework: stitching, darning, mending, quilting, and embroidering.

Celia became acquainted with many of the slave women as she shared in the housework, but she was too shy to imitate Lysette’s familiar manner with them. She did not understand the complex relationship between slave and slaveowner, the sense of being part of the same family yet maintaining boundaries that were never crossed. Some of the plantation wives clearly regarded their servants as property, while others seemed to have genuine affection for them. One day the mistress of a neighboring plantation called on Lysette and broke down into sobs while telling of the death of an old family servant. “She was more of a mother to me than my own,” the woman had cried, mopping her face with a lace handkerchief. Celia had been confused by her attitude. If the servant had truly been such a beloved friend, how could the woman have kept her in enslavement? Perhaps in time, Celia thought, she would come to understand this odd society.