Silver Storm (The Raveneau Novels #1) (32 page)

"
Yes
,
I'm quite certain. That
woman—you know, the first Master Raveneau's mistress.
Veronique."

"Did you say that she died? Here? But
how?"

"Do you mean he didn't tell you? Hmmm!" Elsa
settled her firm bulk on the ground, relishing the chance to reveal
all she knew. "Of course, I have been here only a few years, so
most of this has been told to me by the other servants. Cook has
been on the island since the house was finished some thirty years
ago." Elsa's voice dropped as she added with a wink, "She knows
everything!"

"Will you please get on with it?" Devon
demanded, smiling in exasperation.

"You have heard of the old master's... ah...
lady? It is said that he built this house for her."

"Yes, I know all about that."

"Well, as I understand it, after a few years
she gave birth to a child, which old Herr Raveneau of course
accepted as his own. According to Cook, when the little girl was
about five, he somehow learned the truth—that another man was the
father. That night he and Veronique had a terrible argument. Cook
says she could hear them through two floors, down in the kitchen.
Then it was quiet." Elsa paused for dramatic effect. "The next
morning the lady—Veronique—was missing. They found her there—" She
pointed to the beach below. "Her neck was broken."

Devon gasped, "Oh, my God!" She stared down
at the beach. She and Raveneau had made love on the spot where
Veronique's dead body had lain. Shuddering with revulsion, she met
Elsa's sky-blue eyes. "What happened after that?"

Elsa pursed her lips, concentrating. "I do
remember that old Herr Raveneau denied killing the lady. Cook says
he was quite distraught; shut himself away for days and refused
food. He was certain that it must have been an accident—that she
had been upset after their quarrel and had gone out for some air.
You know—a misstep in the darkness."

"Quite a misstep!"

Elsa nodded skeptically. "Cook told me that
he ordered his mistress's child removed from the island at once. I
gather he had her sent back to that Veronique's relations in
France. He went to sea soon after and was away for two years."

"No one knows who the real father was?"

"No one on the island except for Veronique
and perhaps the old Herr Raveneau."

"Wouldn't the servants have known if
Veronique had been unfaithful to Andre's father?"

Elsa rolled her eyes. "There were plenty of
ships in and out in those days, before the war. When the old Master
was away, I hear that the lady was quite fond of her play, and no
doubt those randy seamen were happy to oblige."

The bitch! Devon thought furiously. No wonder
Raveneau despised her memory so bitterly. "Andre's poor father! If
he possessed even a fraction of his son's pride, he must have been
shattered by the entire ordeal."

"I think that is true. He died only a year
after I arrived here. He always seemed old before his time, but I
do recall hearing the older servants remark on how greatly he had
changed since his youth. Cook must have told Hermann and me a dozen
times that the younger Raveneau is the image of his father thirty
years before, when the house was first built."

* * *

Christmas week came, bringing melancholy
feelings for Devon. It was impossible not to remember other years
of her early childhood. When her father was alive, Christmas had
been overwhelmingly festive. They had lived in their fine house
then, and Jamie had joined Devon in her high spirits. The house had
been festooned with garlands of pine, while snow had covered New
London and the surrounding woods like a white blanket. Happy people
had skimmed over the curving streets in sleighs and great
quantities of hot mulled cider had been consumed. Devon and Jamie
had spent long hours in the kitchen, watching as Deborah created
all manner of pies and confections, inhaling the wonderful aromas.
And on Christmas Eve, their father had lit the yule log, a moment
of speechless enchantment for the two small children.

In retrospect, Devon thought that her gift on
Christmas morning had been of the least importance, though at that
time anticipation had ruled the children's lives. Tears filled her
eyes as she remembered the meal that had followed the presents—a
golden, fragrant bird, spicy meat pies, sweet potatoes, hot
rolls—her father saying the blessing, and her own inevitable poke
in Jamie's ribs when he had grown long-winded...

On the island, Christmas was only an
illusion. Warm, moist breezes blew; there were no evergreens from
which to fashion garlands. Cook prepared a wonderful feast on
Christmas Day, complete with flaming plum pudding, and Devon
decided to eat below with the servants. She watched the children,
including Elsa's two blond toddlers, Rudolph and Winifreda, as they
pulled the wrapping from their modest gifts—toys handmade by
Hermann, each one unique.

Afterward, Devon returned to her room, lay
down on the rose counterpane, and wept tears that burned her eyes
and throat like acid. She grieved for all she had lost and all the
dreams that might never be fulfilled.

***~~~***

January, 1782

The new year renewed Devon's spirit. Day by
day, she felt better. Her appetite returned, and she had more
energy than ever before. Her hair shone, a blend of sun and flame,
her cheeks glowed with color, and her tears were replaced by
euphoria. Elsa was a perfect companion. She listened cheerfully to
Devon's conversation about the baby, and the two women spent long,
contented hours creating a wardrobe for mother and child. Six other
serving girls were enlisted to help. They weren't told the reason,
Elsa leaving them to assume that Captain Raveneau's latest mistress
desired elegant gowns, most of them cut with high waists and
billowing skirts. Elsa whispered that Marie Antoinette wore nothing
else.

The baby's tiny clothes were sewn by Devon
and Elsa alone, and hidden away.

Bernard Souchet cast the only shadow in
Devon's life. His rudeness grew in proportion to her radiance.
Occasionally she would fret about his attitude, but Elsa supplied
quick and effective diversions and Devon would put Souchet out of
her mind.

January fourteenth was like many other days
before, until late afternoon. Elsa urged Devon to lie down and
rest, for the baby's sake, while she gathered up their sewing and
put it away in the back of the wardrobe. They were both at peace;
Devon smiled dreamily, one hand on the still-hidden, hard curve of
her abdomen.

Suddenly Devon's eyes opened wide. She lifted
her head and whispered, "Elsa!" urgently. The German maid rushed to
her side, but her expression of fear disappeared when Devon
breathed, "I felt him. Elsa, he moved! Oh! There it is again!" Her
eyes filled with tears of joy. "My baby!"

They hugged, and Elsa remained on the side of
the bed for several minutes, chatting happily with her excited
mistress until a noise outside roused her. Voices?

Casually, Elsa stood up and walked over to
the window. Figures moved under the trees below. There were several
men, at least one woman in a fine gown, and what appeared to be a
child. In the distance Elsa saw a schooner anchored off the beach.
Then Bernard Souchet appeared. Arms outstretched, he ran down the
front steps and the woman ran forward to embrace him. Elsa narrowed
her eyes. Sable hair tumbled in curls down the woman's back. A tiny
wasp waist and round, prominent breasts were apparent even under
the bronze silk gown.

Eugenie! Elsa thought, anger and wariness
mixing. What was she doing here again?

"What is it, Elsa? Has a ship come in?" Devon
sat up on the bed, suddenly anxious. "It's not—"

"No, no, it's not the
Black Eagle.
Ah..."

"Elsa! If you know who it is, do tell me. I
don't like the look on your face."

Elsa had no choice. Wincing, she perched on
the edge of the bed and concentrated on not meeting Devon's eyes.
"Someone has come," she began lamely. "Her name is Eugenie...
Richoux, I believe. Yes, Richoux."

"And?"

"She... ah... has been here before. Six years
ago, after the old Herr Raveneau died, his son came at once from
America. As I recall, Fraulein Richoux arrived soon after he did.
She was a friend of the Raveneau family or of Souchet. I don't
remember, exactly, though I do know that she and Souchet became
friends."

"I suppose that she had an affair with
Andre," Devon said in a flat voice.

Elsa flushed. "I think so. But no sooner had
she begun to hang on his arm, smiling like a cat with a canary,
than he had to leave. Suddenly. I must say, it was a pleasure to
see her lose that smug look. I suspect she thought he'd marry her
so she could stay and be the queen here on the island."

"What did she do then?"

"Oh, she sulked and pouted for a fortnight,
then left herself in a big hurry. That morning I helped to pack her
trunk, and I remember that she was smiling in a way that gave me
goose flesh. I had a feeling that we hadn't seen the last of
her."

Devon lay back on the bed, pensive. "Sea
travel has been too dangerous during these war years. She is
French? I'll wager that she heard the news about Yorktown. People
think that Cornwallis's surrender unofficially ended the war."

Elsa sighed. "I do not like this."

"What do you suppose she is up to? I can't
believe she would try to win Andre a second time."

"She has had six years to think of a new
plan," Elsa muttered.

"Well, it's all silly. I know Andre Raveneau
very well, and he is not about to marry this Eugenie Richoux, plan
or no plan. I may not win him, either, but I certainly have a
better chance than she does!" Devon patted her abdomen for
emphasis.

The hall door had been left ajar, and now it
moved, To Devon and Elsa's utter astonishment, a little girl
appeared. "Hello!" Her accent was an odd mix of British and French.
"My name is Louisa Richoux. Who are you?"

Spellbound, Devon sat up on the edge of the
bed and held out her arms in a gesture of welcome. Elsa stared,
gaping, as the little girl walked happily to meet her new
friend.

"I am Devon Lindsay. It is a pleasure to meet
you, Louisa." Smiling, she took the child's hand. "How old are
you?"

"Five."

Elsa made a strangled noise, which Devon took
to be a reminder of her presence. "Oh, dear. I've forgotten Elsa!
Louisa, this is Elsa Kass, my dear friend."

"I am her maid," Elsa clarified.

Devon was looking at Louisa. The child was
beautiful. Her head was covered with gleaming gingery curls that
fell in cheerful profusion past, her shoulders. Warm, long-lashed
brown eyes dominated a charming face that also boasted a turned-up
nose and engaging dimples. Her smile was irresistible.

"Where have you come from?" Devon asked.

"England. Mama has wanted to visit this
island for a long time, but it was too dangerous to come in a
boat." She pronounced her words with matter-of-fact assurance.
"Someone might have shooted a cannon at us."

"You were wise indeed to wait. Have you
always lived in England?"

"Mmmmm." Louisa was looking admiringly around
the luxurious room. "Sometimes we visit France. That's where my
mama's
grandmere
lives. She's very old!"

"Don't you have a father?"

"I think so. Mama says I will have one
soon."

Devon's eyebrows went up. Meeting Elsa's
narrowed gaze from across the room, she felt her smile become
flimsy. Elsa held up a hand, its five fingers splayed, and nodded
toward the child.

"Do you know your father's name?" Devon asked
weakly.

"Papa, I suppose. He fights wars and kills
people."

"Oh." She nodded mechanically.

Louisa leaned against Devon's knees and
stroked the silk counterpane dreamily. "This is almost as soft as
my cat," she murmured. "Do you have any little girls?"

"No... not yet."

"You're nice. I like you."

"I like you, too. Very much."

Another voice brought both their heads up.
"Very cozy!" Eugenie Richoux's accent was trained to British
precision; it held only a whisper of French to betray her origins.
Sleek sable-black hair was piled in a fashionable mass atop her
head, but a handful of long coils were left to trail down her back.
Her face was a perfect ivory oval; gold-flecked hazel eyes slanted
up slightly at the corners, emphasized by winged brows. Her nose
was thin and her mouth tapered like a cupid's bow. She wore an
elegant gown of bronze silk, and its severe lines served only to
accentuate her perfect figure.

Devon managed to swallow a groan, but before
she could speak, Louisa broke the tension. "Mama, this is Devon
Lindsay! She's wonderful!" Halfway across the rose and green
carpet, she looked back. "This is my mother!"

Bracing herself, Devon went forward and
offered her hand. Eugenie barely touched it, her own fingers cool.
"My name is Eugenie Richoux. Andre and I are very old and dear
friends."

She summoned a sweet smile. "In that case, I
hope we shall be friends as well. He will be desolate to learn he
has missed you. He will be at sea for several more months."

A winged eyebrow lifted frostily. "I
understood the figure to be
three
months. Possibly
less."

"Possibly." Devon smiled. "Probably more,
knowing Andre."

"We shall wait," Eugenie proclaimed.

"Oh, lovely! Your husband won't be missing
you?"

"I am not married," was the icy reply.

Devon decided not to press the issue. "Oh.
Well... I am certain that you both must be exhausted. I'll let you
go to your rooms." She dropped a warm smile on Louisa, who beamed
in return. "You have a lovely child, Miss Richoux."

"Please, do call me Eugenie. And thank you. I
feel that Louisa is
very
special. Do you think Andre will
agree?"