“Would you have preferred that he continue to lie to me?” Mercy challenged.
Madelaine shrugged. “Actually, yes.”
Mercy’s eyes grew enormous. “Madame, that sort of attitude is reckless and unconscionable!”
But Madelaine merely stirred her tea and stared at her daughter-in-law with a sad, worldly smile. “My dear, if such are your feelings, all I can say is that you’ve been living in the convent far too long.”
“What do you mean?” Mercy asked irritably.
Madelaine leaned toward the girl. “Mercy, you’re being hopelessly naive. A number of Creole men have mistresses—and illegitimate children. The only difference is that most of them, unlike my idiot son, are wise enough to be discreet about these liaisons and keep their peccadilloes from their wives.”
“So you’re saying it’s acceptable for these men to compound their treason with deceit?”
“These things happen, Mercy. Men cheat on their wives. It seems to be the nature of the male beast. Furthermore, wise wives simply learn to look the other way.”
“Well, this wife never will!”
A knowing smile curved Madelaine’s lips. “Why, Mercy. I do believe you’re quite hopelessly in love with my son.”
Mercy nearly dropped her teacup. She sucked in her breath and managed to stammer, “How could I love a man who—who treats me in such an abominable fashion?”
Sagaciously, Madelaine murmured, “Ah, but it’s because you love him that you’re feeling so hurt and jealous right now.”
Mercy gulped and glanced away.
“Do you want to lose him, Mercy?” Madelaine asked gently.
She turned to stare at the widow with anguish-bright eyes. “No.”
Madelaine nodded, reaching out to pat the girl’s hand. “That is good. Now you must listen carefully, because there is much at stake here.”
“Yes, madame?” Though her brow was furrowed, Mercy was prepared to listen.
“Let me tell you a little about Julian and Justine’s history,” Madelaine said gravely.
She told of how Julian had met Justine and set her up in housekeeping, how Justine had become pregnant, and how Julian had rashly decided to marry her. “My son was hopelessly enamored of the woman,” Madelaine lamented. “When I pointed out the legal and social ramifications of such a marriage, he simply announced that he would flee with her to France.”
Mercy was stunned and crushed. “Then what happened?”
“I informed my son in no uncertain terms that if he married his octoroon, I would disown him.” She sighed heavily. “I’m not sure whether my ultimatum had any effect. But finally that Begué woman managed to convince him to see reason. She refused to marry him, or to flee the country with him.”
Mercy was staggering beneath the onslaught of these disclosures. As much as she hated to admit it, she had to give Julian some credit for behaving honorably, just as she had to give Justine some acknowledgment for acting prudently. “It was good of Justine to put Julian’s welfare above her own,” she murmured with a frown.
But Madelaine waved her off, laughing scornfully. “My dear, that little opportunist is anything but selfless. The woman doubtless did not want to risk being thrown into jail with Julian. Nor did she want to start over with him as a pauper in France. After all,” Madelaine continued cynically, “the woman has a tidy existence established for herself, with her lavish little bungalow on the Ramparts, and my son supplying her every need.”
“Have you ever . . . met her?” Mercy asked.
“Certainly not,” Madelaine retorted. “But I’ve met the child, and I must say, I can understand my son’s devotion to him. Arnaud is an angel, and I’m deeply fond of him.”
“Oh, madame.” Mercy’s crestfallen expression more than mirrored her utter devastation.
Madelaine frowned. “Mercy, for heaven’s sake, don’t sit there mooning like a lovesick lamb. I’ve told you all of this for a reason.”
“What reason?” she cried. “You’re telling me that your son loves another, that he wanted to marry the woman? That they have an adorable child together? What can you expect me to feel, or do?”
Madelaine’s blue eyes—eyes so like Julian’s—gleamed vehemently. “I expect you to fight for him, girl, especially now that you’re aware of everything at risk here.”
“But how can I compete with these others who are so important to him? He has a son with this woman—”
“Then you give him a son. A legitimate heir. As soon as possible.”
Mercy swallowed hard, feeling horribly anxious and inadequate. What if she couldn’t bear Julian a son?
“And see that he has no reason to visit this other woman’s bed,” Madelaine continued baldly. When Mercy gasped, she added, “Forgive me if I’m speaking indelicately, my dear, but this situation calls for utter candor. My son is a lusty young rogue, it’s true; but we both know we’re not going to change him. Therefore, it is your duty as his wife to see that his needs are sated. I realize that you are a proud woman, Mercy, but you must decide, and decide quickly, what matters to you more—your pride or your marriage. If you turn my son out and he goes to this Begué woman—as I assure you, he will—then you have only yourself to blame.”
While Mercy was mortified by Madelaine’s frankness, she knew that the older woman had spoken the truth. “Oui, madame,” she murmured, her expression deeply troubled.
***
You must decide what matters to you more—your pride or your marriage.
Madelaine Devereux’s prophetic words haunted Mercy for the balance of the day. Back at Julian’s town house, she paced their bedroom and agonized endlessly over Madelaine’s revelations. Her worst fears were confirmed now.
To think that Julian had offered to marry Justine and flee with her to France! He had been willing to give up everything for her—his family, his inheritance, his place in society. It was all too much to be borne. He must be hopelessly in love with her.
Fight for him. She recalled Madelaine’s stern advice. But could she really compete with Julian’s other family? Moreover, could she accept the fact that he might still visit Justine’s bed?
Never! Nor did she know if she could ever live with the reality of these others who claimed such a special place in his heart.
She thought of the terrible things she and Julian had said that morning. Even if she could swallow her pride and fight for him, she wasn’t sure their marriage could ever survive all the hate and anger they’d already heaped on each other.
***
That night, Julian came to Mercy’s bed very late—but he didn’t touch her. In the morning, she awakened to find him gone.
Over the next week, the same frustrating pattern was repeated. Julian came to her very late and turned his back on her; each morning, he was gone before first light.
Mercy could easily guess the reason for Julian’s distance—her cruelly informing him that only the physical aspect of their marriage pleased her. Doubtless his affronted male pride made him withhold even his more carnal attentions from her now. She wondered why he bothered to sleep in their bed at all—and then she recalled their argument over separate bedrooms. Doubtless, that same deadly pride impelled him to continue with the illusion of the marriage bed, although it was an empty one. His message was clear: I can have you if I choose, but I choose not to.
His message hurt. His distance hurt. Mercy fretted endlessly, despairing about the impasse in their marriage, and wondering all the while if he was secretly seeking his ease with Justine.
While her nights were torturous, her days passed slowly. She occasionally went out, visiting briefly with the nuns or attending fêtes at the invitation of other young wives she’d met in the Quarter. She shopped and became better acquainted with the running of Julian’s household. She even began helping the cook plan the menus—yet Julian was never there to share the lavish meals the servants laid out in the dining room each night. Perhaps he took all his suppers with Justine now.
At last, Mercy’s curiosity and hurt got the better of her, and she decided to go meet Justine Begué in person. She wasn’t certain what she could accomplish through a face-to-face encounter, but she did know that she had to discover, once and for all, what she was up against.
On that morning in late July, Mercy summoned Henrí into the parlor. Facing Julian’s manservant bravely, she said, “I wish you to take me to meet Justine Begué.”
Astonishment flickered across Henrí’s dark brown eyes. “Madame, are you sure this is wise?”
“Whether my actions are wise is not for you to determine,” Mercy responded archly. “Furthermore, I must ask that you not tell my husband of the visit.”
Henrí’s handsome features tightened into a mask of courtesy. “As you wish, madame.”
Henrí dutifully drove Mercy to Rampart Street. While the drive was brief, it afforded Mercy plenty of time to wonder if she was about to make a complete idiot of herself.
Soon enough, Henrí turned the coach onto the long lane of small houses which comprised the infamous Ramparts, where many Creole men kept their mistresses. Henrí stopped the coach before a neat, if innocuous-looking, cottage halfway down the street.