My Immortal (13 page)

Anna shrugged. “It seems unlikely. I know that’s not what you want to hear. It’s written all over your face, child. You want to hear they were in love and everything worked out just fine. But it didn’t. And I’m sure that in the telling on down from Marissabelle, over all these years, some of the details have gone missing, but I’m telling you as I remember it. The man got married three years into their relationship and Marissabelle knew about it, knew the wife had big money, knew she resented the time he spent with his quadroon mistress. He used to tell Marissabelle his wife ranted and raved and cried over it, but he kept coming anyway, because a man wants to do something, or give a gift freely and of his own will, not because his wife asked or demanded it. Men are stubborn, proud, spoiled.”

“Not just men. I know women like that too.”

“True. But Marissabelle used that to her advantage. She became his forbidden fruit, and that meant that at a point in their affair when he might have been getting bored with her, his wife’s fussing only made his mistress all that much more appealing to him. She was his independence, his defiance, his control.”

Marley adjusted in her plastic chair again. The sweat on her neck, her armpits, her shoulder blades, slid and shifted and made her skin itch. She wondered if Lizzie felt that way—if the men she jumped into bed with were ways to display her independence, her way of proclaiming she could do whatever she wanted and no one could stop her. The thought made her feel hopeless. If that’s how Lizzie felt, Marley would never be able to help her change her life, get grounded. Lizzie didn’t want to be grounded, and Marley had never been willing to accept that.

“So what happened? Did the wife kill him or something?”

Anna gave a soft chuckle. “No. Never would have thought of that. You got yourself a bit of a morbid mind, Marley Turner. No, he didn’t die, and if she had known what he was planning, Marissabelle would have killed him herself. It turned out his wife couldn’t have children. So because she held the purse strings in their marriage, and because he wanted a child to hold on to all that money, they took his two daughters by Marissabelle, moved to Alabama, and told everyone they were his legitimate children with his wife. He didn’t want the boy of course, because he was half black and not his own blood. So it was just Marissabelle and her son left to fend for themselves. Again.”

“Oh, no.” Marley pulled her knees up to her chest, sick to her stomach. “How could he have done that to her? How could he live with himself?”

“I expect he thought he was doing the right thing for all of them. He knew he couldn’t keep Marissabelle forever, and the girls were only an eighth black, so no one would ever know the difference. He could give them a home, an education, and keep his wife happy. He gave Marissabelle enough money to keep her and her son out of poverty for a fair while, and everybody’s happy, right?”

Marley didn’t think he could have really believed that.

“Well, Marissabelle wasn’t happy, didn’t want to give up her girls, but what was she going to do? No court was ever going to take her side, and she knew he did love his daughters. There just weren’t any choices for a woman like her, and so she took the money, gave him her babies, and wished him a slow, painful death in hell. Then she swallowed her pride, took all her talents of seduction and manipulation, and started attending the quadroon balls in search of a new benefactor.”

“What’s a quadroon ball?”

“They were very popular around that time in New Orleans. Rich men came to the balls to find mistresses. The women were all half- and quarter-black women, and the balls were nights of debauchery between French and Irish men who had too much time and money, and women who were taught from birth to lure these men and to look at themselves as better, a class above their slave and freemen counterparts. You can imagine these weren’t bingo nights.” Anna gave a laugh and grinned at her. “These were like the parties the current Damien has.”

“I am so naïve,” Marley said, pulling her T-shirt off her breasts and yanking it down over her knees. “I can’t fathom how men decided to start having actual balls with these women in order to shop the market for a mistress. It’s just so mercenary. And creepy.” So had these guys just been sitting around the gentlemen’s club one day lamenting the ability to pick over all the hot mistresses at one time and decided to throw a party to do just that? Did they line them up, rate them according to cleavage, auction them off to the highest bidder? “I can’t imagine standing around with all those men checking me out. It must have been so degrading.”

“You’re talking like one of those feminists.”

Marley heard censure in Anna’s voice. “So? What’s wrong with being a feminist?”

“Nothing, except you’re not standing in those girls’ shoes. This was 1833, Marley. These women didn’t have choices like you all do now. Being at a ball, wearing a nice gown, dancing with men, flirting, eating elegant food, was a hell of a lot better than slavery.”

“Yeah, but it’s still slavery, just in a pretty dress. The man who becomes your benefactor owns you just the same as a plantation owner does a slave.”

“So either way you’re owned, but one keeps your hands out of the dirt.”

Marley figured she’d rather dig in the dirt than give oral sex to an obnoxious rich guy, but she didn’t say it out loud. Marissabelle was Anna’s relative, and truthfully, what did Marley know about it? She’d never done back-breaking manual labor or been destitute.

“Most of those women considered themselves lucky. You ever go hungry, Marley? You ever live on the streets? That’s what Marissabelle was protecting herself and her son from, and it was a position that had its drawbacks, sure, but it had some perks too. Parties, gowns, pretty manners, and believe it or not, there are some women who like sex, like the games they can play with men, like the pleasure they can take for themselves.”

“I can’t imagine enjoying sex when a man is paying you for it.”

Anna stared at her, her eyes dark as granite. “Then you don’t understand the power of sex. You don’t understand power itself. And you definitely don’t understand the freedom of letting yourself do what your body was designed for, without worry, without fear, without restraint. Just diving in and doing it.”

Marley hugged her knees harder. “No,” she whispered. “I don’t understand that.” She didn’t do anything without fear, without restraint, without weighing the pros and cons and stressing over the outcome, the future, her feelings, and everyone else in the universe’s feelings about her, her actions, their actions, and why the Earth was round. Freedom? She had no idea what that was.

“So Marissabelle met Damien at a ball?” She could see it in her mind’s eye, the beautiful women, the candlelight, fluttering fans, flirtation, men moving confidently and arrogantly, sure of their place in the world, their worth.

“Yes, but not for a while. First she was one man’s mistress for six months, but he was fickle and lost interest. She wasn’t sorry to see him go because he was quick with his fist. Then she was with another man for near a year and he was nice enough, if a bit boring in the bedroom, but he dropped dead one day and she was back at the beginning, back to the balls.”

“It sounds scary, to always have to rely on someone else for your security, never really knowing if you’ll wind up with a nice guy or not.”

“I suppose so.” Anna grinned at her, her dentures shifting a little in her mouth. “But not so different than dating. You’re taking a mighty big risk of being annoyed or bored when you say yes to a man asking you out.”

“That’s true.” Then again, Marley didn’t even date anymore, so what could she claim to know about it?

“Marissabelle had heard about Damien du Bourg, and she had avoided meeting him. It was said he was strange, eccentric, reckless to the point of suicidal. He had volunteered to bury the dead in the last cholera epidemic the year before, and they said he worked nonstop, burying bodies all day for two months. They said he stank like death, like dirt, and he never once seemed afraid he’d catch the sickness. He never complained, never asked for payment, just stood side by side with working men dealing with all the bodies that stacked up higher and higher every day. They started to call him Death’s Door because it seemed he was always knocking on it and yet never took that last step. He drank heavily, he raced his horse, his carriage, he wrestled alligators in the swamp, and had a collection of cottonmouth snakes. Marissabelle thought he sounded strange, a bit off. Not quite right in the head.”

“I would have to agree with that. He definitely sounds a little strange.” And creepy. Though she supposed there was something to be admired about a man who risked his own life to bury dead strangers.

“But one night she accidentally caught his eye, and he asked her to dance. He didn’t say much, didn’t give her all that flattery, some real, some false, that the other men did. He just held her, just stared down at her, unsmiling, just let her see that he was a man who could match her, pride to pride, passion to passion, wit to wit. She wanted him physically, was drawn to him in a way she didn’t understand. It was like being reeled in on a hook by an expert fisherman, and when the dance ended and he said, ‘Come home with me,’ she didn’t hesitate. She just said yes. There are some men like that, you know, or sometimes it’s just that one man with that one woman…the two together are combustible. Irresistible to each other.”

While it was a stretch to think she was irresistible to Damien, Marley certainly understood how Marissabelle had felt. She was flopping around like a fish on a hook herself. “So her time with him was passionate?”

“Very much so. Their relationship was passionate, angry, demanding, sweaty, powerful, lusty. The rumors were true. He was strange and reckless, but that excited her, challenged her. She was an enthusiastic lover, and he gave her a house.”

“And?”

“And that’s it. End of story.”

“That can’t be the end of the story. Did they stay together forever? Did they have children? Were they in love with each other?”

“No, no, and no.” Anna sighed. “But I’m tired now, Marley. If you have any more questions, maybe you could come on back tomorrow and we’ll chat again.”

Marley looked at Anna, saw how pale and drawn she was, and felt terrible for not noticing sooner. “Oh, I’m so sorry. Do you want to take a nap? I can help you into the house. I didn’t mean to push, Anna.”

“Not your fault I get tired so damn easily.” Anna shifted in the chair and grimaced. “Do yourself a favor and never get old.”

Marley laughed. “Okay, I’ll work on that.” She stood up. “Is there anything I can get you? Water?”

“Just go on back to the big house and I think I will take a nice nap. You come on back tomorrow and we’ll talk.” Anna stood up and tugged her shirt down lower. “And you can gossip to me and tell me what sex with this Damien du Bourg is like.”

This wizened old lady was way more liberal than Marley was used to. Her cheeks were burning. “I’m not sleeping with Damien.”

“But you will be. You will be.”

Suddenly I understood that if I wanted to gain that which I sought, I had to let Damien know what I was seeking. With heart racing and palms damp, I sat on his lap and said, “Rosa appeared to be enjoying your attentions.”

He studied me. “Perhaps she was faking her desire, as whores are wont to do.”

I remembered her face, thrown back to the rain. “I do not believe that. And I…I want to understand…I want to feel that pleasure myself.”

Bracing myself for laughter, for sneering criticism, for mockery, I straightened my spine and met the steady gaze of my husband. He did none of those. Instead he shifted me on his lap so that my thigh made contact with his arousal.

“If it is merely pleasure you seek, I can certainly give you that, Marie.” His hand moved up my back, petting very lightly, very relaxed. “So what did you see between Rosa and myself that appealed to you?”

I considered, then gave my answer. “That you seemed to be on equal footing.”

“Your answer fascinates me.” Damien brushed his lips over mine. “You are fascinating me.”

Then he lifted his glass to my lips and tipped it. “Have a sip so that we may be on equal footing.”

The liquid slid into my mouth, cool and hot at the same time, burning my throat and fanning out into my limbs like fiery fingers. I felt warmth most acutely between the thighs, and I shifted, anxious, uncomfortable, ready for whatever was to come next.

“Now take off your chemise, since I am not wearing a shirt, so we are further on equal footing.”

I struggled out of my sleeping jacket, Damien not moving to assist me. When it was pooled around my waist, I took a deep breath. How to describe the anticipation? The realization that somehow, this time, it was completely different. My body had awakened, was clamoring for the attention of my husband.

When Damien’s mouth touched my lips, my neck, the top of my bosom, it generated a wholly different reaction than previous times. Whereas before I’d felt only fear, discomfort, and embarrassment, now my skin tingled, my nipples beaded, my mouth went hot, my breath rapid. My hands found their way to Damien’s chest and pressed against his firm, warm flesh. The strength there excited me, intrigued me. I stroked all around and down even lower while he continued to administer his attentions to me for long and luxurious minutes.

Damien set me on my feet, and when he demanded I remove my shift, I did so with a shocking pride for the desire I saw in his eyes. I peeled my clothing right off, letting it drop to my ankles, and stood at excited attention while he took in my appearance, eyes rolling up and down.

“Since we are on equal footing, you must do to me as I do to you, wouldn’t you agree?” he asked as he removed his trousers.