Chapter 6 #3
Jacques didn’t read the books, seemingly satisfied to have me recount the contents to him.
I felt important as I shared the ideas and the conversation the books sparked.
I didn’t question why he spent sums on books, only to give them away.
I was interested only in growing my own collection as I read deep into the night, learning of lands far beyond this one, grateful for Death’s gift of being able to read and speak any language I heard.
Some Sundays, we broke off and walked alone, his hand lingering over mine. It felt good to be the center of his attention. It wasn’t the red-hot love Eugène had for Eulalie. I didn’t know if I was even capable of those kinds of feelings, but it was a warm, pleasant glow.
In September, Eulalie and Eugène moved into a large two-story home on Rampart Street. They hosted a masked ball at their house to celebrate their commitment, a celebration open to all who understood the nature of their relationship.
For the occasion, I had chosen a blue cotton dress with marigold petticoats, a white shawl tucked around my shoulders and into the neckline, and a marigold tignon to match.
Eulalie bustled by me. “Is that a new dress? Quite fetching.”
I nodded, fluffing the cream cotton skirts with the dark-blue trim.
She gave me a long look. “Anyone you’re hoping you’ll see tonight?”
“Possibly.” I blushed and straightened the row of extra masks meant for guests.
The steady stream of guests soon consumed my attention as a quartet began to play.
The sound of stringed instruments mingled with lively conversation as a pair of dancers swept about the room, waltzing to the sprightly fiddle.
Other couples joined them on the dance floor, and the room became an atmospheric swirl, colored with the flicker of candlelight, the spin of vibrant cotton and patterned silk, the spice of tobacco, and the titters of laughter from tongues loosened by wine and champagne.
The scene was a wonder, and my place in it would have been unthinkable before Death had given me this chance.
I stood watching, until suddenly Jacques came up behind me, pulled me into his arms, and took me out through the open door into the darkened summer evening.
“Mr. Boudreaux, you forget yourself!” I yelped. But I went willingly with him into the night, my grasp on propriety loosened by the effervescence of the champagne and the atmosphere.
“Miss Noelle, I’m sorry to say that your mask does nothing to hide you from me.”
“That’s a shame. I paid far too much for it then.”
He grasped my hand and pulled me into a twirl—my back pressed to him, his cheek next to mine, our bodies swaying to the music.
“No matter what you picked, I would always know it was you. You have utterly bewitched me.”
My heart hitched as he gazed down at me, the slightest dimple visible on his left cheek, rough with a day’s growth.
“Now that you know it’s me, what will you do about it?” We were not the only couple strolling along in the darkness, farther away from the lamplight of the interior, slipping into the shadows that only the garden could provide.
“Everything.”
No one had ever spoken to me this way. A flush bloomed in my heart and sank low into my belly.
I wasn’t innocent. There had been . . . incidents at home right after Master Carter, my father, died. Sometimes memories I had buried deep returned to me in flashes, and I’d startle and struggle to remember that I wasn’t back home.
But this was the furthest thing from that place, that time.
And Jacques was a good man.
Right hand on my cheek, he drew me in, brushing his lips over mine, his free hand on my back. I lost myself in the kiss, the music tinkling through the air, and the hum of the cicadas in the background, his warmth stirring me from the tips of my toes.
Then he looked down at me. His eyes lost their teasing light, becoming serious.
“Noelle,” he said, his breath heavy, “would you consider something more between us? Something more . . . secure.” His eyes swept over my face as he searched for the words.
He wasn’t being coy. I knew true marriage was not an option, but Eugène and Eulalie had settled for the closest they could get.
“I—” I couldn’t finish the thought. It all felt so sudden. He crushed his lips to mine, his kiss more urgent, his hands more insistent. Heat flooded between us. It frightened and thrilled me.
I pushed against his chest, allowing more summer breeze between us. “You can’t ask me something like that and then make me lose my senses.”
He grinned good-naturedly, still not letting go of my side. “Think about it, and tell me in the true light of day. We can go on a ride tomorrow.” He grasped my hands, his strong, pale fingers dwarfing mine. “I will take care of you.”
His earnest declaration felt heavy. To be taken care of—I hadn’t even considered what that would mean.
Having someone to do all the worrying for me.
Someone to give me space for my writing and the time to complete my task.
Someone whose resources could be put to use in finding my brother.
I was still processing his words when he kissed me again, his lips soft this time, moving gently over mine, the caress making me feel whole and complete. He ended the kiss, then bowed and said, “Please consider my offer, Miss Noelle.” And then he took his leave.
The carriage slowed and shuddered to a smooth stop.
“Do you find it pleasing?” Jacques asked, sitting so close I could barely turn, my hand gripped in his. A fine sheen of sweat sat on his pale brow as he glanced out the window, then back at me, blue eyes darting over my face.
“It’s everything you’ve promised and more,” I said, placing my free hand on his arm.
He’d kept his side of the placage arrangement.
I pushed away thoughts about what it would actually mean to be his, while his white French wife lived miles away on the family plantation.
Though she was here in Louisiana, unlike Eugène’s wife, Jacques had assured me there was no love between them.
Their marriage had been more or less arranged—the union of two wealthy families—and I, he insisted, was his focus.
I believed him. Eulalie had discreetly inquired and had been told that Jacques’s wife had her own arrangement, with a woman in her social circle.
Jacques beamed, wrapping me up in his arms, the scent of fine tobacco flooding my nose. I waited for the appropriate time before I leaned toward the window and gazed at the house.
“It’s beautiful,” he said.
And it was.
The house on Rampart Street spoke of affluence—whispering of sugarcane wealth from the thickly paned glass door to the brass lion-head knocker centered at eye level, its mane curling, a brass ring clutched in its sharp metal teeth.
Long and narrow, two stories of white stucco rose skyward, supported by four white Grecian columns standing like sentinels, centered on a large corner lot, one of the grandest on the street, attesting to its own importance.
A stately wrought iron balcony wrapped around the second floor, and the forest-green shutters were thrown open to catch any breeze that cut through the swampy heat.
Trimmed hedges peeked from the back garden, nestled next to the carriage house and stables.
It was a far cry from that tiny cabin on the outskirts of Savannah.
It almost didn’t seem fair that I’d be living there—that I’d have the opportunity to call it home.
What would Mama think of all this? Guilt rattled through me that while I’d been blessed, I still hadn’t discovered Silas’s whereabouts, but I was determined.
“And yet, it is nowhere near as beautiful as you, Noelle,” Jacques murmured, distracting me. He stroked my arm, his fingers lingering, tracing a path up to my shoulder, along my jaw, his eyes on my mouth, their color like the sea after a storm, his dark hair curling forward.
I flushed at his words and his touch, jumpy as a jackrabbit, ready to bolt, but kept myself still.
From the moment our arrangement had become official, Jacques never missed a chance to touch me. The intensity of his affection was overwhelming.
Jacques had always acted honorably. But I continued to carry what had happened to me in Savannah. My body had been my own for the past eleven years: to work, write, and survive. In entering into this agreement with him, I would discover what it meant to live and lie with a man.
We just have to get used to each other, I thought. He knows how to be affectionate.
Jacques sat beside me, his hands clasped around mine. “Are you ready?”
I swallowed the butterflies twirling in my stomach and remained still, focusing on his handsome face, square jaw, curling hair, and hungry gaze. I reminded myself this was not all for me. This was also a way to find my brother, Silas. I can do this.
Still, I couldn’t shake the tightness in my chest when he came near, as if my new corset had been laced too tight.
“Should we go inside?” I asked, one hand on the handle as I smoothed my white-and-blue-striped shirt and adjusted the fabric rose at my waist, the garment symbolic of my new station as a placée.
“I’d love to see our home.” I sweetened my voice, playing the part.
Jacques blinked, the lust clearing from his eyes as a red blush traveled up his milky-white cheeks. His usual calm demeanor slid into place. The tightness in my chest eased.
“Of course,” he said. “We’ll have time enough together.” Jacques bent quickly, grasping my hand and kissing my knuckles as the carriage door hinged open.