Rogue's Mistress(61)

Soon they turned onto Silver Street, passing its dilapidated façades and then angling upward toward Natchez proper.

Natchez-on-the-Hill gleamed in stark contrast to the misery below. As they crested the bluff, Anton pointed out the various sights—Clifton, with its stunning white pillars, lush weeping willow trees, and blooming camellias; the old Spanish parade grounds, spilling vibrantly out onto the edge of the bluff; the expansive esplanade leading to the old, jasmine-drenched plaza. The various houses and inns they passed mirrored the dual Spanish and French heritage of the historic community.

In the central business district of town, Mercy took note of neat shops, stylish eateries, quaint apothecaries, and produce stands. Anton turned them onto Jefferson Street and they headed toward the outskirts of town, gliding down a tree-lined boulevard past magnificent mansions of Greek Revival, Classical, or Georgian design.

The stately homes took Mercy’s breath away. Anton had informed her that there were over twenty millionaires living in Natchez, and, staring at the opulence stretching before her now, she could easily believe it.

Soon, they turned onto the driveway of a stately white Romanesque mansion lushly draped with blooming bougainvillea and crepe myrtle, and shaded by towering oaks and verdant magnolias.

“This is my grandparents’ home?” Mercy asked Anton tensely.

He nodded. “Quite a grand estate, isn’t it?”

“Indeed,” she murmured.

As he stopped the carriage, she studied the home in greater detail. Squarish in design and two-storied, the structure was graced by four chimneys, six enormous fluted columns, a stylish portico, and a stunning cut-glass fanlight over the front door. Dark green shutters and a gray-blue porch contrasted with the gleaming expanse of white; huge pots, spilling out bright red geraniums, were lined up along the porch, interspersed between homey slat-backed rockers.

“Oh—it’s so lovely here,” she whispered to Anton.

Even as he alighted from the coach with a grin, a middle-aged black man in livery hurried toward them. “Master Anton! You back with the child?” he called, grinning.

Anton turned to nod at the servant as he handed Mercy down.

“Hello, Jerome. I’ve brought Madame Devereux home to meet her grandparents.”

“Welcome, ma’am,” the black man said to Mercy, bowing respectfully.

“Thank you,” she murmured with a smile.

As Jerome led off the horse and conveyance, the front door opened and an elderly couple emerged. Mercy’s heart thudded as she stared at the two people she knew had to be Hélène and Gaspard Dubois.

She was shocked to observe how old they were—both had deeply lined faces and snow-white hair. Still, they were a handsome couple, both tall and slender, the man dressed in formal black and the woman gowned in an elegant frock of dove-gray silk.

“Mercy!” the woman called. “Oh, my dear, is it you?”

As Mercy waited, too nervous to speak, the couple hurried down the steps toward her. Hélène at once reached out and embraced her granddaughter. Mercy inhaled the scents of rosewater and lavender sachet as she stood stiffly in her grandmother’s embrace.

After a moment, Hélène backed off slightly. “Oh, Mercy! You’re the very image of your mother.” Dabbing at tears with a lace handkerchief, she turned to her husband. “Isn’t it so, Gaspard?”

“Indeed,” her grandfather said hoarsely, staring at Mercy starkly. He stepped forward and gently kissed her forehead and squeezed her hand, his grip warm but slightly trembling. “Welcome to Natchez, my dear.”

“Thank you, Grand-père, Grand’mère,” Mercy replied awkwardly.

Hélène seemed to remember Anton then. She inclined her head toward him with a smile. “Oh, Anton, thank you so much for bringing our Mercy home to us.”

“You’re most welcome, aunt,” he returned gallantly.

Hélène turned back to her granddaughter, taking both Mercy’s hands and beseeching the girl with her fine brown eyes. “Oh, my sweet child. When I think of your dear, departed mother . . .” Choking back a sob, she continued plaintively, “Gaspard and I were so terribly wrong. Can you find it in your heart to forgive us?”

For a moment Mercy was unnerved. She hadn’t expected this question so quickly, so directly.

Indeed, she had half expected to hate her grandparents. Yet how could she hate this frail, vulnerable old couple who now stared at her so anxiously and expectantly, especially when her grandparents had obviously already suffered a lifetime for their transgressions? They were her family after all, the only family she had known in over nine lonely years.

“Well, dear? Will you forgive us?” Gaspard now asked with desperate hope in his voice and tears in his eyes.

“Yes,” Mercy whispered, and with an anguished cry, both grandparents fell into her arms.

Huddled together, the three climbed the steps to the house. Anton followed discreetly, a sly, self-satisfied grin curving his lips.





Chapter Twenty-eight


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“My dear, you must tell us all about yourself,” Hélène Dubois said.

At noon, Mercy, her grandparents, and Anton were seated in the Dubois’ opulent dining room for luncheon. Gaspard and Hélène occupied opposite ends of the Hepplewhite table, while Mercy and Anton sat across from each other toward the center. All four were sipping white wine from Baccarat goblets and sampling oyster stew served in bowls of finest Sèvres china.

Mercy set down her silver spoon and smiled at her grandmother. “There’s really not a lot to tell. After Mama and Papa passed away when I was nine, I became the ward of Julian Devereux. He sent me to school at Ursuline Academy, and later on to St. Mary’s Convent. I finished my studies there last spring, and this summer M’sieur Devereux and I were married.”

Both grandparents frowned at her account. “How did you come to be acquainted with this Julian Devereux?” Gaspard asked.

“He was a friend of my family’s,” Mercy replied awkwardly, demurely raising her linen napkin to cover her lie.

“And this man—your guardian—later became your husband?” Gaspard pursued with a deep scowl. “How very odd. I would think M’sieur Devereux would be far too old for you, for one thing.”

Surprisingly, Mercy felt feelings of loyalty stirring toward her husband at her grandfather’s critical words. “On the contrary, my husband is still a young man. He’s a wealthy cotton commission merchant, and hails from a socially prominent family.” Her eyes gleamed with some bitterness as she glanced first at Gaspard, then at Hélène. “Let me assure you both that Julian had nothing to gain by marrying me, as I was penniless at the time.”

At Mercy’s forthright words, both grandparents glanced away in acute embarrassment and guilt—Gaspard coughing into his napkin and Hélène stirring her tea with nervous motions of a beringed hand.

Finally, Hélène flashed Mercy a conciliatory smile. “My dear, we do not wish to speak ill of your husband. However, we are most concerned for your welfare, and we cannot help noticing you came here to Natchez without your spouse.”

Mercy tightened her jaw; her pride was somewhat affronted by her grandmother’s bluntness. While she no longer harbored hatred toward the Dubois, neither was she sure that she completely trusted these strangers, or that she wanted to become permanently associated with them. “This is my husband’s busiest time of the year at the Exchange,” she assured her grandmother coolly. She glanced for support toward Anton. “Besides, Anton was kind enough to escort me here—”

“And Mercy is being far too kind to her husband,” Anton finished grimly. Even as Mercy glowered at him in warning, he held up a hand. “The truth is, Aunt Hélène and Uncle Gaspard, Julian Devereux is a cad who forced Mercy into the marriage and now lacks the honor to live up to his vows.”

“Anton!” Mercy glanced crestfallen at him even as she heard both grandparents gasp in horror.

“Is this true, Mercy?” Gaspard demanded. “Did this man force you to become his wife?”

Mercy bit her lip and stared down at her plate. “I consented to the marriage willingly,” she said at last. “But Anton is right that I made a mistake.”

“Oh, no!” Hélène lamented, her slim hands fluttering to her face. “You poor darling.”

“I’ve been urging Mercy to seek a divorce as well as a Church dissolution of her marriage,” Anton put in importantly.

“I think you should proceed with both, dear,” Hélène concurred. “Oh, if only Gaspard and I had known of your predicament!” She reached out to pat Mercy’s hand. “You can start over here with us.”

Mercy sighed, gently removing her fingers from Hélène’s grasp. “Grand’mère, I’m glad to be able to meet you and Grand-père, and to get to know you both. But I’m not promising that I’ll stay here permanently with you.”

Hélène and Gaspard exchanged an alarmed glance, then Hélène amended quickly, “But, darling, you don’t have to stay here with us if you’d prefer to establish independent lodgings in Natchez.”