East of Orleans (26 page)

“Oh, Jules, I’ve never seen anything so beautiful in all my life.”

“Well, good. I’m tired of seeing you so sad all the time. All of that’s gonna change.” He glanced at her. “You remind me of the boys that came back to the South after the war. I want you to be happy. I ain’t a young man anymore and I want my life to be different.”

“Do you expect me to have babies?”

“I’ll leave that up to you, Mrs. McGinnis. It’s enough to have you. But if it happens, I’ll be proud.”

Isabella fell silent. She thought about Tom.

It was a mystery to Patrick why Jules McGinnis had put the house on Oglethorpe in Jacqueline’s name, but indeed, he had. Patrick’s feet seemed to lift off the ground when, moments later, he ran inside the Oglethorpe mansion and screamed Jacqueline’s name.

Priscilla, with outstretched arms was carrying crisp bed linens down the hall when Patrick almost knocked her down. She leaned her head into Jacqueline’s bedroom and said, “Ise don’t know what’s wrong with Mister Patrick, but he acting like the war is over and we won. Lord, I think everybody in dis house done lost dere mind.” Priscilla put the fresh sheets on a chair and pulled the soiled ones from Jacqueline’s bed. Priscilla mumbled, “First, Mister Jules brings us here and buys us dis fine house, den you be bad and runs him off. Now, Mister Patrick, he done moved hisself here. Lord, I don’t know what’s bout to happen next. I tell youse I better off not to know. And I thought them Yankees wuz crazy.” Jacqueline smiled as Priscilla made the bed and gave Patrick a sidelong glance as she left the room.

Jacqueline could hear the snips of the gardener’s clippers outside. She smelled the fresh brewed chicory coffee that Priscilla had made a few minutes earlier. Sitting at her dressing table, Jacqueline admired her face from every angle in the mirror. She leaned forward and dusted her chest with a perfumed powder. Patrick stepped up behind her and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Jacqueline watched as he removed a pistol from his holster and placed it on the table.

“I could stand here all day and look at you.”

“Then how would you find the time to do all the things you do around here?”

Patrick began to strip off his coat and his shirt. “There’s something I have to tell you.”

Jacqueline looked puzzled. “Is it good or bad?”

Patrick seemed about to burst with joy. “Close your eyes. Now imagine walking into this beautiful house, hearing the sounds of children playing, sun shining through the leaded glass, flowers blooming in every room. Time passes and you never have to leave.”

Jacqueline opened her eyes. “Never?” she whispered in disbelief.

“Never. I learned about this just this morning. I found where the deed was recorded. It read, Jules Madison McGinnis, grantor, to Jacqueline Marie Rousseau, grantee, the house on Oglethorpe for the consideration of one dollar, love and affection. Paid in Full.”

Jacqueline stood up. She walked out onto the iron balcony and looked over at the park. She hated this time of year. The flowers were gone and leaves were rotting all around her. What she had just heard was wonderful, but saddened her at the same time. She took another look, blinked away the tears, then turned around and walked back inside.

Patrick searched her eyes. Jacqueline knew there were words that he wanted her to say. But she could not say them. She knew also that there were feelings that he wanted her to feel, but she did not feel them. In an instant, she changed the look on her face and tried to smile. After all, Patrick O’Brien was the handsomest man that she had ever seen and he loved her. She could read it in his eyes. Finally, a man who truly loved her, a man who would give her a child and a name. Jacqueline glanced down at the glisten of the ring on her hand and removed it. She placed it the rosewood box that kept her from her pain. She would never be foolish again. With Jules out of her bed and Patrick in her life, she could bury all images of Jules forever.

Jacqueline heard a thump outside the door. She ran to open it. There stood Priscilla. “Miz Jacqueline, I jist came to see what you wanted for supper.”

“Supper, my foot. You know you’ve been standing outside that door with your ear up against it. I am sick and tired of you spying on me. You are worse than those two biddies next door.” Jacqueline looked angrily at Priscilla. “I ought to have you pack your things and put you out of here.”

“Honey, don’t be so hard on her,” said Patrick.

“I’d like to put her planting cotton,” Jacqueline said.

Patrick bent over and removed his shoes. “Priscilla, how ‘bout running these down to the cobbler for me?” Priscilla took the shoes and hurried off. He turned to Jacqueline. “She’s a good Negro. Has she done something to make you not trust her?”

Jacqueline had to remember this was not Jules she was talking to. This was not a man who would treat her like a daughter; this was a man her own age, or only a few years older. He would not understand her childish ways or appreciate her little girl charm the way Jules did. But, of course, Jacqueline knew that all men liked for their women to act like little girls; especially in the bedroom. Jacqueline looked into Patrick’s eyes, tilted her head and smiled. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Poor thing, you’re right. She hasn’t done anything wrong. I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”

Patrick interrupted Jacqueline’s apologies and pulled her close to him. He slowly undressed her and slowly made love to her. When he finished, he rolled over and said, “Lord have mercy on us.”

I don’t know what the Lord has to do with this, thought Jacqueline.

“I love you,” whispered Patrick.

Jacqueline closed her eyes and knew what she had tried to deny: she didn’t love him.

Isabella entered the house and quickly glanced around the rooms. Jules lit two lamps and one candle. The maid and hired hands had left and it was the first night alone in their new home. Isabella had thought about how it would be marrying a man that she did not love, but right now, it didn’t seem too bad, not too bad at all.

That night she sat up in the bed as the moonlight filtered through the shutters. Her new husband was not beside her. Isabella walked through the house, but Jules was nowhere to be found. She thought to herself that it had not taken him long to get used to the sweetness of her youth. She had expected to see wrinkles and loose, sagging skin, but that was not her husband. His body was stocky and firm with all the vigor of youth and the desires of a young man. She heard a carriage come around the front of the house. Isabella scowled and started to speak sharply as Jules walked into the house, but she held her tongue. “Where you been?”

Jules glanced at Isabella and lay down on the sofa. Isabella could smell the whiskey. Her husband was drunk. She stood over Jules and thought of speaking her mind, but knew she’d better leave him be. It was one thing to know her husband did not love her, but another to know that he did not desire her. Then she remembered the conversation she had overheard in the livery stable that day; about the house Jules had bought for his whore on Oglethorpe. She looked at her still husband and thought perhaps there was no difference between her and the whore. Of course, there was a difference—he had married her, and to Isabella, that’s all that mattered.

The next morning, Isabella got up, dressed and left her bedroom. As she started to the kitchen, she bumped into a gray haired Negro man carrying a silver tray with a glass of tomato juice, black coffee and the Savannah Morning News. Isabella smiled, nodded at him, and then realized that he had taken the tray out on the verandah where Jules was sitting. When Isabella walked onto the verandah, Jules motioned to her. He was giving instructions to the stable boy about which horse to saddle and then offered his arm to his wife.

“Where did you go last night?”

There was a look of guilt on Jules’s face. Isabella knew all about girls in dancing dresses; she had seen them at the tavern, laughing and drinking with men until sundown.

“You been with them women in the dancing dresses?” she asked with a childish look.

A slow grin spread across Jules’ face. He glanced at her. “That ain’t something for you to worry about.”

“Who said I was worried? But I reckon now that I’m your wife, it might be some of my business.”

Jules stood up and plopped his hat on his head. Without looking back, he walked toward the carriage. “Little lady, I’ll be home for supper.”

“Do you not think anything’s any of my business?” she yelled.

Isabella’s face flushed red and she stormed back into the house. Her thoughts turned to Jesse. Isabella had not mentioned to Jules that her intent was to bring Jesse to the house on
Monterrey
as soon as they were settled in. Besides, Jules could not refuse her offer to bring her own driver; he should appreciate the fact that she was so thoughtful not to bother her new husband with such trivial details.

Isabella knew that Jules did not marry her simply because he felt sorry for her. After all, he was not a marrying man. Jules himself had told her so, and on more than one occasion. She knew he was not a romantic, nor did he have a sympathetic heart. In fact, it had occurred to her that he did not
have
a heart. Jules had made it clear what he wanted out of the arrangement, but still, there had to be something more. Something that Isabella had yet to figure out, but she was determined to. Then there was that mention about the whore who belonged to him. If Jules indeed had his own whore, a woman that would be content to stay at home and have an affair with a man that never intended matrimony, then why did he marry her?

Isabella’s eyes grew moist as she thought of Tom and her lost youth. She thought of her baby Elora, who spent more time with Kate than with her. She thought of her mama and granny. I might as well be dead, she thought. Isabella closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep. She dreamed that she and Tom were waltzing, not in a ballroom, but along the banks of the
Chattahoochee
River
. Tom held her close, and Isabella was ecstatic.