Forever (2 page)

She scrambled to her feet and began to run. Leila cried out, turning to follow her, her dress impaled on thorns.

‘Chantel!'

The drumbeats ceased instantly. There were shouts of alarm: the pounding of running feet.

‘
Chantel
!' Desperately Leila pulled herself free and ran but there could be no escape. Chantel was only yards ahead of her. They were seized almost simultaneously.

For the rest of her long life Leila remained convinced that only Louella's intervention saved them from death.

They were dragged down into the clearing, held before Valère, surrounded by shouting, frenzied figures.

‘Loa,' Leila heard Louella saying fervently. ‘The brides of Loa can never tell.'

It seemed to Leila that an almost imperceptible smile crossed the face of the man who by day served Chantel's father so dutifully. A smile of pure evil. He nodded aquiescence to Louella and Louella hurried to their side as they were hauled to a spot far from the altar.

‘What is happening? What will they do to us?' Leila asked in terror.

Louella's eyes held hers. No longer maid but mistress. ‘Valère will allow you to become brides of a Loa. As such, he knows you will never talk of what you have seen – or the Loa will exact vengeance.'

‘Loa?' Leila felt as if she were falling into a bottomless pit. Were they to be married to one of the dancing Africans?

‘A Loa is a god,' Louella said calmly. ‘Many women choose to be a god's wife for the benefits he bestows upon them. All through your life, on the first night of the week and on the last, you will sleep alone. Those nights are to be dedicated to Loa. To sleep with your earthly husband on such a night would be to commit adultery and offend the god. Whatever you do, Miss Leila, never offend your god husband. To do so will be to bring down his vengeance on you and your children and your children's children.'

Leila suppressed a sob of relief. They were not to be killed. They were simply to take part in a ridiculous ceremony and then be set free.

‘Why did Valère remove the hair and nails from the corpse?' she asked curiously.

Louella bent close to her, her face only inches from Leila's, her voice low.

‘Valère is a
hungan
. A priest of voodoo. A man of great power. He wants possession over the spirit of the dead man. The hair and nails contain the soul. Whoever possesses them possesses power over the person from whom they have been taken.'

Leila laughed nervously. ‘Why should Valère want power over a man who is dead?'

Louella looked at her strangely. ‘There is much you do not know, Miss Leila. Much that you would not believe. The dead can walk. That is why the shoes were removed. So that he can walk quietly.'

‘And his pockets?'

‘His pockets were emptied to ensure he has nothing with him that can give him power over those he has left behind.' Louella's name was called and she touched Leila's hand briefly. ‘Do exactly as you are told and you will be safe.'

As she moved away towards Valère, Leila turned to Chantel.

‘There's no need to be afraid, Chantel. You heard what Louella said. It's all a lot of silly mumbo-jumbo.'

Her words of comfort went unheard. Chantel's fear had rendered her almost senseless.

Minutes later Valère was ready to perform the ceremony. Chantel was supported before the altar by strong black arms; Leila defiantly stood alone. Dresses of white were sprinkled with water from the chalice and slipped over their bedraggled gowns. There were prayers and intonations. Proxy husbands stood at their sides and a mockery of a wedding ceremony was endured. Two serpent rings were slipped on each girl's wedding finger. One her own ring, one the ring of her god husband.

They were now the brides of Loa. Participants in a voodoo ritual of which they would never be able to speak.

The Haitian grinned broadly, his huge bald head gleaming in the candlelight. The drums and dancing began again. Revolting liquor was pressed on the girls and they had no option but to drink.

The last thing Leila remembered was Louella's face, bending and receding above hers. And Chantel's whimper. That was to remain with her always. The terrified whimpering of Chantel Gallière as she lay on the beaten earth, white skirts billowing around her, her rosary clutched tightly in the palm of her hand.

She saw him for the first time when she was sixteen. The party at Belle Fleur, the Jefferson's graceful colonial home on New Orleans' St George Avenue was for Natalie Jefferson's birthday. Augusta Lafayette had no idea how old Natalie Jefferson was. It was Natalie's daughter, Mae, who was her closest friend. But at that moment she had no interest in Mae. Her entire attention was centred on the man who dominated the room with his sexual magnetism.

He was tall, inches over six foot. His shoulders were broad. Beneath the exquisite cut of his tuxedo Augusta could see the muscles of his shoulders ripple. There was nothing clumsy or bear-like in Beauregard Clay's stature. He carried his height and breadth with ease and almost animal-like grace.

Beauregard Clay. She had been familiar with his name for years, but the sophisticated circles Beau Clay moved in were not those of a child. Beau Clay, whose widowed father had repeatedly threatened to disown him. Beau Clay who drank harder, drove faster than any other male in Louisiana. Beau Clay, whose lovers were legion and whose photograph appeared in newspapers from Mexico to Montana.

Around her, waiters moved with champagne: maids with exotic delicacies. New Orleans high society laughed and flirted with feverish gaiety.

Someone touched Augusta's arm and asked her for a dance. She refused without turning to see whom the request had come from. Not taking her eyes from the demonic handsomeness incarnate before her.

His hair was blue-black, glossy as a raven's wing, curling low over the collar of his lavishly laced and frilled evening shirt. His skin was olive-toned, the bones of his face almost abrasive in their masculinity. His dark eyes swept the room disinterestedly, and her heart ceased to beat for a second as his gaze slid over her and away.

She knew now why he excited such talk: such gossip. There was a brooding restlessness about him that was palpable: a fearlessness, a daring; an insolence towards life that was almost frightening in its intensity. She wanted to touch him more than she had ever wanted anything before in her life.

Her father's cousin, Tina Lafayette, was approaching him, undeniably chic in a sleek fitting gown of black lace that stopped short just above her pretty knees.

Augusta suddenly felt gauche. Her dress was long, as was the dress of every other woman in the room. Only the delightful Tina could have got away with such a breaking of social rules.

‘Gussie, darling!' Her aunt had seen her, was facing her across a vast expanse of polished floor and dancers, Beauregard Clay at her side.

Augusta's heart began to beat in slow, thick strokes. They were walking towards her. A slight smile hovered at the corner of Beau Clay's mouth as Tina laughingly whispered up at him. They were in front of her. Gussie gasped. Felt the blood pound in her ears.

‘Gussie, darling,' Tina said, lustrous lashed eyes sparkling, ‘do meet the most notorious breaker of hearts New Orleans possesses. Beau Clay.'

Her hand was in his. His touch was like fire: she was aflame, burning with heat and longing.

‘Beau, meet my cousin, Gussie Lafayette.'

Did she speak? She couldn't remember. His eyes held her prisoner. The music changed to a slow, slumberous waltz.

‘There are the Villeneuves,' Tina was saying. ‘I must have a word with them before they get lost in the crush. Do excuse me, darlings.'

They were dancing: his body so close to hers that she could smell his skin and feel his heart's strong beat. His grasp was firm: decisive.

‘So you're little Gussie Lafayette?'

His voice was deep, rich-timbred, a lazy Southern drawl that sent her spine tingling.

She raised her head to his: his eyes were amused, slanting under winged brows.

‘Augusta Lafayette,' she corrected, holding his gaze challengingly. ‘I'm not a child, Mr Clay.'

Beau threw back his head and laughed and around the crowded room eyes turned in their direction. Red-lacquered nails tightened jealously on the stems of champagne glasses. Fathers frowned, glad the girl was not their daughter. Bradley Hampton, who had asked Gussie for a dance and been so summarily refused, helped himself to a large glass of rum punch, his young jaw hardening, a nerve throbbing at his temple.

‘You're certainly not,' Beau said, black eyes gleaming.

She was a beauty all right. Hair pale-gold and water-straight, hanging in a silky sheen to her waist: eyes violet-dark, with something in their depths that told him she would be worth paying attention to in a year or two.

Above her head, his eyes met Tina Lafayette's and his expression turned to one of heat. Tina Lafayette was thirty-two, five years his senior. But she was a woman in every sense of the word – mature, sensual, and with a sexual appetite that nearly matched his own. The dance had ended. White teeth were flashing in a smile. He was moving away from Augusta.

‘No,' Gussie cried, stretching out a restraining hand.

Her plea was lost as the sound of jazz filled the room. Her desperate fingers caught only air. She was hemmed in on all sides by pulsating, gyrating bodies. Beyond them she could see his dark head, see her aunt's pretty blonde curls, and then they were gone.

She moved dazedly to the side of the vast room and sat down on a gilt and velvet chair.

‘Beau Clay?' Mae asked in wonderment as they sat drinking Coke by the side of the Lafayette pool. ‘You can't be serious?'

Gussie's fingers tightened over the cane arm of her sun-lounger. ‘I am, Mae. I'm going to marry Beau Clay. Just you see if I don't.'

‘But he's
old
,' Mae protested. ‘Twenty-seven or twenty-eight. Besides, his girlfriends are all models or film stars. There was a photograph of him in last week's
States Item
with Zizi Romaine, the star of
Class
.'

Augusta's thickly-lashed eyes narrowed. ‘I'm going to marry him, Mae. Nothing on this earth is going to stop me.'

Mae sighed and sipped her Coke. ‘There's Bradley Hampton,' she said. ‘He's always asking you for a date.'

‘Bradley Hampton is a kid.'

‘Bradley Hampton is nineteen and was the finest athlete of his grade: or any other for as long as anyone can remember. And his father is the richest man in New Orleans.' She didn't add that his thatch of curly hair and arresting blue eyes also made him the handsomest boy in town. If Gussie couldn't see that for herself, she had no intention of pointing it out. She had ideas herself where Bradley Hampton was concerned.

Gussie rose restlessly and crossed to the pool bar. She mixed herself a forbidden Cuba Libre. What if he never paid attention to her again? What if he married one of his sleek, long-legged beauties? The breath was so tight in her chest it was a physical pain. He
had
to notice her. He
had
to.

Mae, sensing that her presence was no longer desired, slipped her sun dress over her bikini and said, ‘I'm going downtown. Are you coming?'

‘No.' Moodily Gussie stared into the depths of her drink, her cascading hair obscuring her face. ‘See you later, Mae.'

Mae sighed. There had always been something a little strange about Gussie. ‘Intense'was the word she had heard her mother use. This sudden infatuation with Beau Clay certainly didn't help.

Gussie returned to the pool with her drink, glad of her own company. Since meeting Beau she had no thought or time for anybody else. She narrowed her eyes against the glare of the sun.

Beau Clay. Beauregard Clay. Augusta Clay. Gussie Clay. Beau and Gussie Clay. Beauregard and Augusta Clay. The names were etched in fire in her brain. If only – if only …

If Mae had hoped that Gussie's infatuation was a momentary phase, she was soon disillusioned. All through the following year Gussie's obsession grew. A Lafayette, with her stunning looks and impeccable background, she could have had her pick of the young bloods continually seeking the pleasure of having her on their arm. Nevertheless, Gussie rejected them all. They were not worth her while. They were not Beau Clay.

Mae had tried to reason with her. Beauregard Clay would never look in the direction of a girl as young and innocent as Augusta. His conquests were all women of the world. His tastes did not run to the virginal, even if the virgin was a Lafayette and daughter of one of New Orleans'oldest families. Lafayettes had been prominent citizens in the 1720s when the fleur-de-lis had flown over the city. Beau was uncaring of the family history Charles Lafayette was so proud of.

Judge Matthias Clay, his father, had fondly hoped that Beau would follow in his older brother's footsteps – a glittering college record: a brilliant marriage: a career to add lustre to the name of Clay. But Beau had shown total disregard for his father's wishes. At first, New Orleans society had condoned Beau's scandalous behaviour, his money, charm and devastating good looks strong ameliorating factors. Yet not even the Clay name and wealth could shield Beau from the eventual disapproval of New Orleans society. Husbands cast suspicious looks at their wives whenever Beau Clay entered the same room. There wasn't a woman in New Orleans who wasn't aware of his negligent sexuality.

The young ones yearned hopefully, the middle-aged ones longed vainly, the elderly ones sighed sadly. Beau's lovers came from New York. From Los Angeles. From London. From Paris: picked up and dropped with such rapidity that it was rumoured he never even remembered their names.

This was the man Gussie was convinced would one day marry her. The one for whom she scorned all other dates, preferring to remain day after day in the grandeur of St Michel, her father's magnificent home in the Garden District of New Orleans, with no other companion but a maid.