“I like you, too, madame.”
“I was afraid Julian would bring home some meek, mealy-mouthed little mouse, a sanctimonious prig he could never be happy with. But you . . . I can tell you have spirit, my girl. You’ll make him a fine wife.”
“Thank you, madame,” Mercy murmured, both shocked and pleased.
Madelaine touched the girl’s arm fondly. “I must introduce you to all my friends at once.”
Mercy bit her lip as she realized she had no real idea of what her responsibilities as Julian’s society wife would entail. She suddenly felt grateful that she would have Madelaine’s guidance and support. “That is generous of you.”
Madelaine waved her off. “You just can’t know how happy I am that you’ll be taking Julian’s mind off—”
“Yes?”
Realizing her blunder, Madelaine said quickly and vaguely, “Oh, you know how hot-blooded these Creoles are.”
Mercy frowned at Madelaine’s perplexing statements.
She wondered what she had meant by her comment about Julian being “hot-blooded.” And what was she supposed to take his mind off? Some other woman, perhaps?
Before Mercy could voice her misgivings, Madelaine continued firmly, “Now—tell me all about your background, your family.”
At this, Mercy felt even more uncertain. Madelaine would never approve of her parents, and she could never be friends with anyone who cast the slightest aspersions on their memory. “What do you want to know?” she inquired proudly.
But Madelaine was already far ahead of her. Throwing Mercy a disarming smile, she said, “Julian told me that your father was an Irish immigrant. Irish blood is good, my dear. I’m sure that’s where you’ve gotten your spirit, your stamina. Now—tell me of your mother.”
“She was French,” Mercy said cautiously.
“Ah—and where did she come from?”
Mercy frowned. “From Natchez, I believe.”
“Ah, yes, Natchez. Jacques and I went there once for the horse races. An enchanting community. Do you remember your mother’s maiden name?”
“Oh, yes,” Mercy murmured, suddenly lost in turbulent memory. That particular name was etched on the headstone of the grave she visited so frequently, the grave she dutifully draped each year on All Saints’ Day. Her father lay in the same plot, and Mercy had always presumed that Julian had paid for everything—just as he had bought and paid for her very life.
“Mercy?” Madelaine prodded.
Muttering an apology, she turned back to Madelaine. “My mother’s maiden name was Dubois. Corrine Dubois.”
“Dubois . . .”
Mercy stared at the other woman tensely. “Do you know something of my mother’s family?”
Madelaine nodded. “Why, yes. I do believe the Dubois are quite prominent in Natchez.”
Mercy’s green eyes clouded. “Perhaps so. I can remember my mother telling me not long before she died that her family disowned her when she married Papa. I’ve had no desire to try to find them since then.”
Madelaine saw the bitterness shining in Mercy’s eyes, and the pride—a pride she must dare never to affront, she mused wisely. “I’m sorry, dear. Now—tell me all about your training at the convent school.”
Mercy rolled her eyes. “Madame, I would bore you to tears.”
“Come now, dear. I am simply trying to be helpful, in case any element of your training is lacking. Is there any area you can think of offhand?”
How to be a proper wife, Mercy thought grimly. To Madelaine, however, she politely related the specifics of her studies, including the academics, French, etiquette, decorum, and music.
Madelaine brightened. “So you sing, then? Will you favor me with a song?”
“Madame, I sing like a scalded cat.”
Madelaine laughed gaily. “Then you’ll play for me on the piano?”
Madelaine’s determined expression forced Mercy to say grudgingly, “Oui, madame.”
She obediently trudged off to the piano, sat down, and proceeded to play a Bach prelude very badly.
With great restraint Madelaine managed not to grimace at Mercy’s discordant playing. The girl was a wretched piano player, but then, that was not why Julian wanted to marry her. One look at the girl made his reasons quite clear.
Madelaine had not expected to like Julian’s convent bride. Yet her first glimpse of Mercy had changed her mind. The girl was perfect—beautiful, spirited, and proud, a strong match for her domineering, arrogant son. Mercy was also clearly an aristocrat; her classical features gave her away. The fact that her father had been an Irish laborer was hardly ideal; but Madelaine was also well aware that Mercy’s mother’s people, the Dubois, were among the most wealthy and esteemed families in all of Natchez. Indeed, at some point, she might make some discreet overtures toward the Dubois, since it would not hurt for Mercy’s prominent background to be known in New Orleans society.
Yet Madelaine would make no contact with Mercy’s family until after the girl was safely wed to her son. For Madelaine would let nothing stand in the way of this match—and risk Julian’s falling back on his original, disastrous choice of Justine Begué.
***
Out in the garden, Julian paced among the roses in the stifling heat. His black silk cravat seemed to strangle him, and he tugged at it distractedly.
He could hear sounds of feminine laughter drifting out through the parlor window. What on earth were his mother and Mercy discussing in there?
Him, no doubt. He had a feeling that Mercy was now having a grand time maligning his character in the presence of his mother.
He glanced out at Madelaine’s prize-winning roses, arranged in perfect rows, their green tendrils and succulent blossoms stretching toward the sun. There were velvety reds, lush yellows, dusky pinks, all spilling their enticing fragrance into the air.
The roses reminded him of Mercy. The ravishing blossoms that begged one to touch, and the razor-sharp thorns that pricked when one succumbed to temptation.
Abruptly, he raised his head. He could hear a Bach prelude being butchered on the piano. Who was playing? Certainly not his mother, who was an accomplished musician.
The devil with it all, he decided impatiently. If the music hour had arrived, he could assume his exile was over.
***
“Julian, she’s delightful!” Madelaine whispered moments later as she and her son sat on the settee together. Beyond them, Mercy continued to play the piano, this time blundering all over a Beethoven minuet.
Julian raised a finely shaped brow. “I presume you’re not referring to her piano playing?”
Madelaine laughed. “Nor are you marrying her for her musical genius.”
Julian couldn’t contain a grin. “Quite true. Actually, I’m shocked and rather touched that you approve of her.”
Madelaine started to comment about Justine, then wisely caught herself. “So when do you plan to marry the girl?”
“As soon as the banns can be read.”
Madelaine’s eyes grew huge. “Julian! A mere three weeks! ’Twill cause a terrible scandal.”
He shrugged.
“Julian,” she implored, touching his sleeve, “you’re only going to marry once, God willing. Do it properly. Don’t begin your marriage under a taint of impropriety.”
He frowned. “How much time would you consider appropriate?”
“At least three months.”
“You’re out of your mind.”
“Two months?”
“Six weeks,” he ground out.
Madelaine threw up her hands. “Very well. You’re committing social suicide, but I’ll do my best to help you muddle through it. First, I must take Mercy around and introduce her to all my friends—”
“Mother, is this nonsense really necessary?”
“Nonsense? Will it be nonsense after you’re married, and receive none of the proper invitations? Will it be nonsense when your children are excluded from the right social circles?”
“I concede the point, Mother,” he said wearily. “But keep the flummery at a minimum, will you?”
Ignoring him, she went on. “And then in a few weeks, we’ll throw a ball at the St. Louis to make our announcement. You’ll marry at the cathedral—”
“Mama, the sisters are already planning a small service at St. Mary’s chapel. You mustn’t take all the planning out of their hands.”
Madelaine sighed. “Very well, but I’ll have to persuade them to hold the Mass in the main sanctuary. Our many friends will never fit in the chapel.”
Julian groaned. “I give up.” Staring at Mercy at the piano, he dared to voice his fear. “And while you’re doing all this fine planning and socializing . . . What if mademoiselle changes her mind?”
“Julian!” Madelaine Devereux was clearly outraged. “Whatever do you think the bridegroom is for?”
***
Whatever do you think the bridegroom is for? Julian mulled over his mother’s brash question as Henrí drove him and Mercy back to the parish house. He studied her seated across from him, staring out the window. She hadn’t betrayed him by revealing their shared past. He had to give her credit there.
“You seem to like my mother,” he murmured.
“Actually, I like her much better than I like her son,” Mercy replied forthrightly.