Amour: Historical Romance (Passion and Glory Book 1) (8 page)

“Nicolas, my one and true beloved.”

Her voice was a whisper and a prayer, full of hope and want and plaintive aching need, the sound of love itself, all the emotion mingled and jumbled together, but never was there even the faintest trace of farewell or confusion. She would, she must see him again. For now that she knew what it was to be truly kissed, she ached for the feeling of his lips on hers, filling her heart with the magic of love. 

Sérolène spun on her heels, hurrying toward her bedroom. Sleep tonight would be impossible. She knew it with certainty. Her legs quavered as she ran, weakened by the force of her rapture, but her heart trembled even more. She felt light and unbearably happy. From this day forward the world and everything in it, would never again be the same.

Charlotte Marie du Plessis, Comtesse de Talonge, glided across the polished wooden floors like a shark circling for prey. The fin of her torso cut easily through the often treacherous social waters of her salon and the dozens of guest who currently occupied it. Like any predator, she instilled a mixture of fear and awe among those nearby. The comtesse had a reputation for devouring the pretenses of fools, high and low. Those most apt to be consumed by her appetite, were alert to her presence and fled toward the safety of the group whenever she approached. Others with cravings for social sport merely watched as she went past, eager to feed on any leavings, should the comtesse choose to snack on a buffoon or two for amusement.

But at the moment, the shark wasn’t hungry. Her salon was full as it always was when she held court in person, but her thoughts were preoccupied more with those who hadn’t come than those who had. As she made her way through the crowded anterooms of her lavishly decorated plantation estate, she bestowed a graceful nod of acknowledgement toward a few special guests. A mark of particular favor.

There were many newcomers to her salon, but this had been by her own design. Too many of the same old faces and things became tiresome. Living on an island could be quite stifling if one didn’t know how to freshen things up from time to time. But there was also the risk that the balance between dignity and drunkenness might swing too far in either direction. That is why she was circling her waters. To make sure that the temperature was just right.

The comtesse’s wake was full of appreciative looks. The attention was pleasing, almost as much as having a house full of important guests, though she was long accustomed to being gawked at. On occasion she paused to allow her hand to be kissed by an admirer, of which there were also many, a good portion of whom were artists, or at least claimed to be. Artists amused the comtesse, they knew a good party when they found one, especially the writers. And if they couldn’t find a good party, they made one of their own. She made sure her salon never lacked for them.

The comtesse wore her thick golden tresses up and pulled back in a tight series of interlocking loops, accentuating the prominence of a face which had attracted the attention of painters and poets since her debut in society nearly two decades ago. The archetype of Venus, at least in so far as most Frenchmen envisioned the fabled goddess of love, the comtesse had wide sensuous eyes, light in color, and a delicate nose which gave prominence to a small but perfectly formed mouth ringed by a pair of full, red lips, always slightly open in a perpetual pout. Her cheeks were naturally rouged, and even with makeup, this coloring shone through, promulgating an air of nascent sexuality which captivated the admirers of the many portraits in which her image had been used as the model.

Adding to her charm, was the impeccable way in which she blended both elegance and individuality in her manner of dress. She never wore stripes of any kind nor fabrics patterned with more than just simple embroidery. She took primary colors as her foundation, and used jackets, stomachers, scarfs and other accessories to add a touch of daring or splash to her ensembles. Some attempted to mimic her flair, but none had the sense of glamour she possessed, comprised as it was, of a unique combination of both beauty and style. She seemed always at the center of things, and attracted friends like spring flowers attracted bees. And she was equally as good in her realm, at collecting information and pollinating relationships as the bee was in its own.

The comtesse stopped to chat briefly with a merchant captain she had invited to her salon at the suggestion of her banker, then headed toward the vestibule to speak to her steward. She wore a
robe à la française
of yellow silk brocade with a very faint lace and flower motif, and a crimson stomacher with geometric embroidery in yellow gold. The comtesse halted near the entrance to the main salon, where the crowd was thinner, and surveyed her realm with a practiced, discerning eye. A slight nod of the head was enough to summon her steward Casimir, who took just seconds to reach her from his position at the entrance of the main foyer.

“Madame la Comtesse has need of me?” the night-black enslaved African, enquired.

Because of his unusually great height, he bent slightly as a courtesy to the lady who owned him, so that she could more easily convey to him her instructions. He was dressed in the formal livery of the house, a dark grey coat with brass buttons, green cuffs and facings, dark grey breeches, a white waistcoat, light blue stockings and black shoes. 

“Casimir, see to it the Comte de Tonnere has his favorite tobacco, but remind him if he wishes to smoke it, he must retire to the study or the billiards room. Though I tolerate his habit, I don’t want my whole house to smell of it.”

Casimir bowed.

“Yes, Madame.”

“Has the Baron de Ginestas arrived yet?”

“No, Madame.”

“When he does, I want a few moments with him alone in my study. Make sure you are watching at your usual place of concealment, in case he should become troublesome. I have some rather delicate matters I wish to discuss with him.”

“Of course, Madame.”

“And also make sure Monsieur Petitfleur has nothing more fortified than wine. No strong spirits at all for him, do you understand? I’ll not have him repeat here, the scene he made at Madame Valadoir’s. What’s more, he is to be kept well away from my person and my maids.”

“As you wish, Madame.”

“How do I look?”

She gave him that look which said she wanted the truth. Casimir knew all the comtesse’s looks, the ones that were genuine and the ones that were just pretend. He even knew the one she made when making love, because he had been in her service since she had purchased him as a young boy, and like any servant worth his salt he knew how to put his eye or his ear to a keyhole when necessary. But he didn’t spy on her. Nor she on him. She trusted him implicitly and he had always reciprocated that trust by the faithfulness and the quality of his service. Casimir liked the comtesse and he did his best for her. Always. She was a good person, had never treated him ill, whipped, abused, or beaten him. Because she had earned his affection as well as his respect, the lash of her disappointment was always punishment enough when he needed correction. They both understood this. If only she would set him free. Then he might even revere her.

“Radiant but tired, Madame, and a bit irritated, if I may say so. If you would but smile more and also heed my advice and sleep in the north bedroom where the air is more favorable…”

“Enough of your scolding, dear Casimir. You know I prefer my rooms to the south because the sunlight always delights me in the morning. Now go and see to your duties,” she commanded.

Casimir bowed as he left her. The comtesse relaxed the muscles of her face and manufactured a smile worthy of Venus as she returned to the company of her guests. Everyone who mattered in the society of the Cap was present at her salon, with the notable exception of the Baron and Baronne de Salvagnac. It was the sole blemish among the day’s carefully orchestrated arrangements, and one she marked with interest. The baronne was her closest friend, but recently they had become somewhat estranged. She wondered if the snub was intentional, or if there was another reason which might have prevented the Salvagnacs from attending.

There had been rumors as of late—interesting rumors. Some said the Salvagnacs were about to conclude a very favorable alliance for their eldest daughter Julienne, but the comtesse didn’t put much stock in such talk. Despite their current difficulties, the comtesse found it hard to believe that Agnès would not have informed her first of something important, given the special nature of their friendship.
Perhaps Agnès is still angry with me, though she assures me all between us is well.
The comtesse was still preoccupied with thoughts of the baronne and her lovely balcony, even as she began mingling in earnest among her guests.

And why had they quarreled? At the root of it was the baronne’s ambition which had come up against the comtesse’s inability to suffer fools. Intentionally or not, her dear friend Agnès had become a lightning rod among elite French society. The baronne’s salon had developed into a formidable bastion of the most conservative voices in the Colonies, those who were fervent supporters of the restrictions on blacks delineated in the
Code Noir.
They called themselves the
Chapeaux Blancs
, the White Hats, and among the many issues which
concerned them, the rise of a large, free and prosperous class of mixed-race descent, gave them the most alarm. As restrictive as the
Code Noir
was, the White Hats
felt it didn’t go far enough. As a class, they were largely landed gentry, and depended upon slavery and its abuses to provide the vast, cheap labor required to work their plantations.

The White Hats argued in private and lobbied in public for more restrictions against blacks, both free an enslaved, and additional limits to the wealth, property and rights the sizeable mixed-race population was currently allowed under the Code. Not all of their concerns were purely racist in nature, though racism was the greater part of their arguments. Many of the mixed-raced population were planters as well. They were competition. If they couldn’t be bested in the market, it was far easier to beat them in the halls of politics, where those of color had no voice or representation whatsoever. There were also serious issues of marriage, inheritance and property which had to be dealt with. Issues the Code sometimes ignored or muddied.

Of course, it had been easier to discern the boundaries of the color line when whites had
first
landed on the islands and begun importing vast quantities of African slaves. Then, there was only White, Black and Indian, the latter designation covering the indigenous people and anything else. Over time, as white and black were stirred together, sometimes willingly, more often by the forcible rape of African women, the edges of the color line had become very difficult to divine. There were many shades of pigment now between the poles of black and white, and difficult questions to answer—social questions and legal ones.

Human blood was universally red, but skin pigmentation varied, so where did white or black end or begin, from both a legal and a cultural point of view? Who was allowed to marry whom, to inherit, to pass on property, to have the full protection of the law? The White Hats had an answer to these questions, conceived in the surety of their prejudice, supported by pseudo-science and even great thinkers like Voltaire.

The reactionaries knew that one drop of African blood was enough to corrupt an entire body, and they sought to define “black” in the most advantageous terms for themselves. The baronne supported this clique, partly out of self-interest, as the Salvagnacs owned a sizeable plantation near the Cap, and partly out of snobbery, because it is a shared human trait to desire to pull up the ladder of advancement as soon as one’s own perch on the higher rungs is secure.

The Comtesse de Talonge had supported the baronne’s opinions, even though she found them unfounded, and at times contrary to common sense. The Venus of the Indies, as the comtesse was known to her many admirers, had several friends of mixed race descent and even a few acquaintances among free blacks. She had no qualms about being in the society of either, and found through long association, that there was very little to distinguish the wealthy Mulâtre families from upper class white society.

She also found blacks much more capable and intelligent than they were generally given credit for. Her own servant Casimir was a perfect example. She had purchased him as a boy and had been told he was exceedingly dimwitted, even for a black. She had gotten him for a bargain price, in lieu of him being put to death, which would have been his fate, because it was cheaper for the slavers to kill him than to pay for his upkeep if he couldn’t be sold.

Casimir, as she had named him, had begun with her as a blank slate, but he had proven to be clever and resourceful and had even taught himself letters and how to read. What more could he have done with a real education, or a childhood absent the trauma of being captured, transported across an ocean and enslaved?

The comtesse believed the thing the extremists were most afraid of was the revelation of what Casimir and so many others like him represented. The real truth that skin color, class, and the host of other artificial distinctions man constructed to excuse his lust for power and dominion over his fellows, were all artificial constraints.

Success had less to do with a predisposition to greatness, than the opportunity one was given to achieve it. Of course to say this openly was a revolutionary thing, and not just in the minds of the White Hats. And so the Comtesse de Talonge kept these extraordinary thoughts to herself, retained Casimir as a slave, because she could not bear the thought that he might leave her service if granted freedom, and socialized with whomever she pleased.

Though the comtesse and the baronne might disagree on fundamental principles, the matter of race was not the matter which most divided them at the moment. Marriage was the issue which set them apart—more specifically, the baronne’s many and hitherto unsuccessful attempts to form advantageous alliances for her daughters, with families very much above them on the ladder of rank and esteem. Such fervent social grasping had made the Salvagnacs a source of impassioned discussion and dispute in the island’s elite circles. Though bartering daughters with large dowries for title and position was a longstanding feudal practice, there were many who felt the baronne’s ambitions were as excessive and unseemly as her husband’s vast fortune. Others simply enjoyed the spectacles of the baronne’s past failures and hoped for more such amusements.