Passion's Joy (14 page)

A garden of paradise, she thought.

In all its great beauty, nature reminded her of the fundamental loneliness of the human condition; each breath told her no one had ever used it before, no one would use it after. She was alone and with this came freedom.

Joy slipped from Libertine's back, removed her things and let Libertine roam to graze freely.

She spread a blanket, arranged her things upon it and stood to remove her skirt and blouse. In just her chemise, she stepped to the edge of the water. Not timid in many things, she gracefully dove out and into the cool depth.

Water offers the ultimate freedom and she made use of it. Throwing a rock and then diving for it became a playful divergence. She stayed clear of the menacing area where the rush of the stream created hidden whirlpools, which some said could catch and hold the very strongest

swimmers. She had no thought of water moccasins, the rarer but more deadly coral snake, or even of the painful pinch of a crawfish. She knew only the play of water, morning light and gulps of sweet tasting air.

The day dawned bright and lovely, not a cloud in the sky. She came out of the water as oblivious to her nakedness as Eve in the garden. She removed her wet undergarments and hung them on a strawberry bush to dry in the sun. In the meantime, she stepped into her skirt, pulled her blouse on and tucked it in, before sitting comfortably on the blanket.

She created a fetching picture. A wide-rimmed, straw sun hat with a pretty red ribbon covered her head. The long wet hair trailed over her arm and off the blanket as she lay on her stomach with her bare feet in the air. Her diary lay open before her. She ate an apple. One hand held the Frenchman's new and remarkable invention, the pencil. As was her habit before starting a new entry in her diary, she read the last. It had to do with the Simone's soiree, her last encounter with Ram Barrington.

April Twenty-one, the year of our Lord eighteen, eighteen.

Dear Diary,

Katie swears he will be there, that he has arranged a meeting with her father and other prominent members of the community to take place at Monsieur Simone's soiree. I should not leave Joshua, I know, and I feel ill at ease doing so; but the thought of seeing him again could not be long resisted. In this way I am no different from anyone else in Orleans' parish. All people talk of is Ram Barrington this, Ram Barrington that. Even the French! I confess I am filled with tingling nervousness, a heady excitement fringed with apprehension even now, as I wait for Madame Beauchamp's carriage so thoughtfully offered to me.

Cory has been teasing me about my new found vanity, and I confess she is right. 1 know not to be ashamed of our poverty, and yet when I look down at my blue, cotton party dress, my best dress simply because it is my only good one, and 1 think of all the ladies who shall be there in silks, with flowing crepe overcoats, their hair fashionably dressed in pretty ringlets, 1 cannot help but know I shall look pale in comparison. Why or why won't Joshua let me cut my hair until I am married? He only ventures that young ladies do not cut their hair until their wedding day, smiling so strangely when he adds: "Then the matter will be decided by your husband." He is not dissuaded

when Cory points out I shall never have a husband if I don't do something proper with this unmanageable hair of mine! The best we can do is braid it and wrap it around my head as in the olden days. It looks foolish and I feel so awkward! I know this is but silly ramblings, yet—

soiree.

She had been interrupted then, returning that very night to write what had happened at the

Dear Diary,

The great gold clock struck eight o'clock, and I pretended to be the only person not to notice he had yet to honor the house with his presence. The music was the best to be found in New Orleans, indeed in all of Louisiana, and as my dance card was full, I was having a gay time of it. In the upstairs ballroom, in the midst of the music, I never heard the great flutter of whispers, which Katie laughingly told me about later, when Ram bore the hundred—it seemed to her—excited introductions as he finally honored the house with his presence.

Katie said he bore the endless introductions with a noted indifference that bordered on the uncivil. Of course, this could only excite the society further. The ladies—even some of the men— found him more handsome than rumor had it, what with his impressive height donned in the finely tailored clothes, noticeably without a waistcoat or jacket, and his neck cloth recklessly loosened. "Was that how they were wearing 'em in England?" I heard Mr. Avion ask at one point, then "one of his mistresses was Josephine's confidant in the French Court of old?" "No!" came another. "Yes indeed, he cuts a devastating form! How did he get that patch?" "Did Lord Barrington really buy the entire Dubois estate outright? Even the town mansion?"

Society's interest in him is insatiable!

Well, as Craig Knowles twirled me across the crowded polished floor, and just as I was laughing gaily, blushing at his flattery, I felt a sudden tingling down my spine. I glanced up instinctively, and the world—my world—stopped. There he stood on the balcony, in the center of a large group of men that included Mr. Simone, Governor Claighborne, Mr. Beauchamp among many others. He stared at me, and in the instant my eyes met his gaze, the world came to its sudden stop and I stumbled clumsily.

Craig caught me in his arms and held me steady; embarrassed, feeling the fool I was, I looked back at Ram, fully expecting to see him laughing at me. Oh, I saw amusement all right, but

something else, something that made me instantly aware of the impropriety of the way Craig was holding me. I gathered my wits, apologized and pleaded a sudden thirst, which Craig immediately set off to remedy.

Then I stood for a moment alone, flustered, wondering how he could affect me so by a mere glance. The dance ended prettily and a great shuffle of feet followed, pleasantries were exchanged as people looked for and found their next dance partners. The noise was deafening. I remember solicitously commenting on old Widow Cosell's pretty new gown and glancing at my dance card to see Tom Henry's fine signature, just as the shiny black boots stepped in front of me.

"In the desperate hopes that I might be the next gentleman you stumble into, may I have your next dance?"

This was what he said to me!

I looked up and could only think: Why oh god why was I blushing, my heart pounding so?

And how did he manage to make a request into a demand, insult me as he begged a favor? I lowered my gaze. This bothered me, but it seemed the only way I could reply. "I'm sorry," I was glad to tell him, "but my dance card is full."

"Dance cards?" He looked down at my hand. "Why, how charmingly archaic." "Doesn’t England have them?" I naturally inquired.

"Not for so many years. Well"—he lifted my hand— "let's see to whom I owe my misfortune.

Mr. Henry, is it? He wouldn't be a dark-haired fellow, would he?" "Why, yes, tall and thin—"

"That's him. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I believe Mr. Henry is at the moment quite indisposed."

"Oh my." I looked around. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing a lady would care to hear about, I assure you. In any case, do permit me to take the poor chap's place, hmmm?"

Without waiting for an answer, he swept me onto the dance floor, and then for all I knew, we were suddenly alone in the world. Never have I danced like that! I could not meet the intensity of his stare, yet my senses filled and flew as he expertly carried me through the waltz. What a magnificent dancer! My slippers never touched the ground. I felt that warmth of his, the pleasant and disturbing scent of him, the effect of his gaze, of being held in his arms, twirled on a cloud of dreams, and I was lost!

Abruptly, he laughed and drew my gaze to him. "What brought you amusement?" I asked. "I laughed at how dim my memory of a very fine painting has suddenly become."

This made no sense, and I first thought I must have heard wrong.

"This will never do," he stopped dancing, though he still kept me close. "I want to take you from this place. Will you go for a stroll in the garden?"

"Oh ..." I cast a conspiratorial glance to both sides, thinking he had something to tell me. "You wish to speak to me in private?'

"Something like that." He only smiled and led me through the doors.

I was conscious of the strong hand on the small of my back, a tingling dart of sensation racing from the spot. I ventured a blushing glance up and around to discover we were the subject of many people's interest. One of these, Tom Henry, was glaring furiously at Ram!

"Why, that was Tom Henry!" I said. "Who?" He didn't know him!

I lifted my skirt to descend the stairs and bit my lips to stop my laughter. "I know what you did. You lied just so I would dance with you!"

"Ah," he chuckled then, "what a clever girl! Not only do you read Greek philosophy but you've managed to discover my small intrigue."

His teasing made me laugh as we passed through the entrance hall and out the doors, stepping into the only slightly cooler night air. Bright stars danced in the clear night sky, and though the moon was absent, it was not needed, for festive lanterns lit the pleasant garden path where we strolled.

"You are not a gentleman,'' I first said.

"So I've been told. But if you humor my pretenses, I'll humor yours." "But what pretenses have IT'

"Here you are, moving among friends and neighbors—the people you routinely steal from.'' "Oh, that. Well yes, it's sometimes difficult for me here, but I try not to think of it."

"What happens when you do?" "I try to forgive them."

He laughed then. "How very kind of you!" "Oh, you're mocking me again!"

"I can hardly help it. Tell me though, how do you manage the duplicity of it?"

The sincerity of the request bade an honest answer, and I found myself sharing the difficulty of living these two separate lives, how it often alienated me from others and made me feel different, and the worst part, how I feel lonely sometimes because of it—if not for my family. As always he listened attentively. The questions he put to me demonstrated both his understanding and sympathy; each insightful question seemed to lead to realizations I might not have reached on my own.

Oddly, one of these realizations was the very contrast in my honesty with him and my relations with others. He demands honesty; his questions allow nothing less, and I was startled by the depth of feeling this brought. The leisurely stroll must have lasted well over an hour, and I often found myself forgetting the acute physical consciousness of him for long stretches of time as he shared his own life situations and anecdotes in turn. His stories have an arresting way of holding me with bated breath, waiting for the conclusion, and when this comes, it inevitably solicits my laughter...

Joy read no more. She closed her eyes to remember his kiss, and lost in a dreamy haze, she soon fell asleep. Sleep owing to a sleepless night, a long swim, the warm touch of the morning sun and the lure of running water.

Rake never barked, finding nothing in the sleeping girl to warn his master about, and as though anticipating his master's wishes, he settled happily beneath the shade of a nearby tree to rest. White against the lush, dark-green landscape, the undergarments warned Ram when Rake did not, and he was smiling even before he spotted the familiar horse. As he came upon her sleeping form, his gaze absorbed the full impact of the innocent beauty before him.

She lay on her stomach with her head resting on her thin arms. A sun hat shielded her face from the sun; the long wet hair spread off to the side told him what he had just missed. She was covered but not, for the colorful Spanish-style peasant skirt molded to her form, and the white blouse was all but transparent. He studied the slender lines drawing the small proud back, the small waist—had he ever seen a waist so small on a woman or was it the pairing of smallness with the soft flow of the blatantly beckoning curves elsewhere?—then the curve of her hips, the long lines of her legs, even the cross of her bare feet. Never had a woman's backside been so damnably alluring.

Ram never thought of waking her. Not yet. With not a sound to his movement, he joined her on the blanket. Never thinking of propriety, knowing full well what it was, he picked up the book and began reading, eating one of the two apples she had brought as he enjoyed himself.

The diary was written with a delicately flowing yet confident hand, the words were not without impact. He expected the innocent musing of a young lady, talk of friends and parties, reflections of the past and hope for the future, and indeed he found these. Yet there was more, so much more. He could not read all of it but only skimmed. Much of the diary concerned family relations, most of which concerned Joshua and much of that on concerns for his ailing health. Yet she also wrote at length about the wisdom Joshua imparted, his ideas, thoughts and reflections that became the poetry of her own mind, a poetry shrouded in her love for her uncle.

With amused interest, Ram read his first entrance on the pages and chuckled at the enormity of her impression of his kiss. He passed quickly through this. Needless to say, the long hard paths of his life strayed far from anything close to the matters of a young girl’s heart. Tender amusement sustained him as he continued skimming through the impressions of their library meetings until the last meeting.

The sudden emergence of vanity brought a soft chuckle, the hope that her future husband had Joshua's good sense about that hair of hers. Yet he remembered the night well, remembered how her poverty could not touch her beauty. All the other ladies looked pale by comparison. He remembered all too well the taste of those soft lips and how close he had come to losing a bet.

He closed the book and placed it in its former position. Twirling a strand of straw in his mouth, he traced the tip of the straw along the line of her thin arm. She stirred with a soft sigh and turned over, still sleeping.

Ram drew a sharp breath. A vision spun by the gods to torment him. She lay with one arm raised over her head, the other at her side. The blouse was all but transparent, and as his gaze rested on the delicious curves of her breasts, he knew he courted disaster.