The Immortal American (The Immortal American Series) (27 page)

He slid off the bed, and stood before me. “You heard her too, Violet. Didn’t you?”

I swallowed and backed away from him.

“Didn’t you,
chér
?”

I shook my head. “You poisoned me, paralyzing me, so you could kidnap me.”

He shook his own head. “
Non
, I gave you . . . I didn’t paralyze you.”

We both heard the kitchen door open and the whispered walk of Bethany as she went to place the new eggs in the pantry. She was mumbling something about the black rooster, the son of the devil, pecked at her.

“You hear her too, don’t you,
chér
?”

I looked at Jacque, realizing I was panting. I shook my head.

He squinted his eyes, then smiled. “Yes, you do.”

We both jumped as we heard a crash below us, more than likely a bowl fell to the floor.

He sighed and extended his hand. “I know I should have asked you. I know. You will have to forgive me later, because right now we have to run. Run away from here. It pains me to do this to Mathew, but I’ve waited for you much longer than he’s even been alive. You are mine now.”

Mine now
. The words echoed in my heart, resonating and breaking something in me.

I did not want to be owned by anyone.

I pushed at Jacque’s chest. He skittered across the floor four feet. I looked at my hands, unsure how my anger had amplified my strength so much. But when I looked back up at Jacque he did not look as amused as I was.

“Come, we have no time now.” He walked closer to me, an arm extended, but his brows down. “She’s making her way through the parlor and the interior stairs. We’ll have to leave by the window.”

I opened the window, shutters too.

“Ah, sense pervades you now.”

And that was my undoing. I wanted to punch him right on his little smile.

“Leave.”

“Hmm? You must get dressed,
chér
.”

“Get out of my chamber.”

He straightened and cocked his head as if he suddenly didn’t understand English.

“Out! Get out. Get out of my chamber. Get out of my life.
My
life, Jacque. Not yours. You don’t own me.”

He rubbed his hand over his heart nodding. “Yes, yes, I don’t own you. I know. I’ve never treated you like property, nor do I plan to. I love you, Violet. I know I should have asked you first, but it is for the best. No other, not even me, could appreciate the gift I—”

“Gift? The gift of your eternal love as long as you poison me to do your bidding?”

“
Non.
”

“Yes. Certainly, you never treated me like property, until today. Get out!”

He blinked and kept rubbing his hand over his heart. I noticed he winced.

“
Non
, this won’t do. You are—you are like me now. You died.”

All the cogs clicked into place. “That’s why you would make up such silly stories about being almost two hundred years old. You did it to try to convince me that you made me immortal too?”

“I—”

“I’ll never run away with you, Jacque. Not now. Not ever. By poisoning me, taking away my choice, I’ll only run
from
you.”

He grunted and swayed, his hand over his heart pressed even further into his chest.

“Stop with the playacting. Just stop.” I tried to restrain my voice, but I was close to screaming at him. “What you have done today, by God you could have killed me, only proves to me that you are no one I should love.”

I heard the soft plods of Bethany’s feet ascending the stairs. Jacque must have too, because when I looked at him, he frowned at the door.

Slowly, he turned back to me. He nodded once.

“You have made your choice then, when I gave you none.” He walked toward the window, as I slunk away from him.

He clutched at his chest, his eyes reddening. “I should have asked first. I will forever regret that.” He stepped a leg through, but then stopped and looked at me. He reached for me, but I repulsed. His face broke then, and he grasped all the more at his chest as if the pain were piercing. It might have been. It was for me. Finally, he choked, “Forever more.”

I turned at the soft tap of Bethany at my door, then looked back at my now vacant window. I rushed to see him running from my farm, but he wasn’t there. He’d vanished.

“Lord in heavens, girl, what are you doing?”

I spun around to see Mrs. Jones who looked horrified at me. She ran to me, picking up the sheet I let fall around my feet in a thin white fabric lake. She covered me, while sputtering, “Don’t tell me you’re trying to kill yourself because I couldn’t take that, Violet. I could not take that.”

I shook my head.

“Good. Now, what were you doing poking your bare ass out of the window?”

What had I done? I’d made Jacque run away from me. But he’d tried to kill me, I reminded myself. Why? Why had he done that? If he hadn’t, I might have . . .

It didn’t matter now. All along I had a plan, and I was going to abide by it. Today was my wedding. Mathew, oh, Mathew would hopefully never know of my lying with another man whilst I’d slept. He’d never know what a traitor I had been. I would marry the right man, the good and decent man, Mathew.

I thought of an excuse to give Bethany. “I—I thought I saw something.”

She looked up at me. Her eyes suddenly round with worry. My voice had warbled too much.

“You saw something?”

I nodded.

“What you see?”

I swallowed. “A ghost.”

Mrs. Jones and I drank the remaining champagne bottles while she helped me get ready for my wedding. She never asked about the furniture or the champagne. She just smiled and acted as if gold flatware just presented itself in a house sometimes.

She washed my hair in her magnolia and lily wash. Then, we drank more. It helped cloud any thought, other than I was to be married soon. It was what I needed, to get drunk. My sister had died, the next day my mother; I attempted to kill Kimball only to be beat out by some mysterious person. And then there was Jacque . . . I went to whisky if I let him invade even an iota of my thoughts. I drank more than I ever had before, yet it never seemed to completely numb me, wash me in a cloud of stupor.

Hannah had begun a dress before the incident that I guessed was for my wedding. It wasn’t finished when Hannah died, but Mrs. Jones had completed it yesterday. It was a soft cream fabric with simple, subtle frills—just for me. It was elegant and yet enchanting. It was Hannah.

I wed in the early evening. I don’t remember much of it, to my embarrassment. I’d drained three bottles of whisky by myself and was as drunk as a lord. So was Bethany. I clutched at her before the ceremony. She cooed and soothed me the best she could.

I remember seeing Mathew for the first time with the reverend. I remember how Mathew stared at me. He seemed in awe of me, and I was thankful my sister had designed such a beautiful dress. I remember the way he held my hand and rubbed the top of it. For part of the ceremony he had to remove his hand from mine; I looked down and suddenly remembered Kimball’s blood on it and almost retched.

I remember saying the right words at the right time and being proud of myself for that. I remember how just as the ceremony was ending everyone thought they heard a wolf howling, but I wondered if it was my wounded, idiotic Jacque. I almost winced as I stopped yet another thought that revolved around him, but I managed to clear my mind of all wandering feelings, even the grief filled ones, gorged with bone breaking sadness that my mother and sister were not here with me. I dared not think of anything, too afraid that if I did I might run from my own wedding, screaming, gnashing my teeth, pulling at my hair, and begging God for the apocalypse.

Mrs. Jones and I drank more while many men and women came and wished their congratulations to Mathew and me. Both famous Adams men asked me for a dance. Mr. John Adams complimented my dress, but more my fortitude. He was sorry I had just lost my family, but, and although it was a piteous consolation, he admitted, I was gaining a new one. Since I adored his wife, I didn’t bristle at his words.

Someone brought a fiddle, and there was sweet music filling my house. There was brief talk about a vigilante who had killed my sister’s rapist, but I only heard the whispers of their talk. Then someone brought a bagpipe, the once forbidden music of my ancestry, and I couldn’t hold back any longer from my tears. I wept. Mrs. Jones sat next to me, clutching at me. I told her of our shared ancestry, since she was my sister now, and how my grandfather had played. She told me she had no recollection of her own father or grandfather. And like Mr. John Adams, I knew it was no solace, but I told her I’d be proud if she adopted my Scottish heritage as her own—bagpipes, haggis, and all.

I don’t know when the townspeople left, but soon Mr. Jones was trying to separate Bethany and myself. We grabbed at each other; me nervously, her crying for my sister and trying to whisper to me the secrets of how not to get sore on my wedding night. Mr. Jones had to carry her off to their small house over his shoulder.

Then I was in my bedchamber with Mathew.

“No,” I whispered to him, while he looked at my dress.

“I . . . I won’t hurt you, Violet.”

“Not this room,” I pleaded.

Mathew blinked; he looked at the bed, then at the drawing of my sister I had made when I was but nine years of age, hanging over the bureau. It was a horrible representation, but I was nine and never all that artistic. I had made it out of love and as my sister grew she would smile at it and, of course, tell me how she adored it. Understanding spread over Mathew’s face when he glanced back at me.

He smiled gently and nodded. “Of course.”

I padded across the hallway to my mother and father’s room, wondering when or how had I lost my shoes? I had replaced the claymore to its rightful corner, and stood, watching it as Mathew latched the door shut. I heard him approaching, and felt . . . I don’t know how to describe it. I wasn’t disgusted with Mathew or what we were about to do, but felt unattached from the moment, from Mathew, namely myself.

“Violet? Darling?”

I turned to him, wondering if he knew how to take off my complicated dress.

“I must have a word with you.”

His tone was . . . harsh.

That snapped me back into my body, into the moment.

He sighed and plopped on a chair my father had made that held a lumpy purple cushion. Mathew winced, and moved the round pillow to his lap, where he proceeded to cling to the fabric with tight fists.

He knew. Mathew had to have known about Jacque, that I loved him,
had
loved him. I couldn’t love a man who would be that devious. Could I?

“I don’t know how to begin.” His voice was rough.

My knees felt as if they were going to give way at any second. I began to tremble as I watched Mathew grip the pillow, seeming not to dare a look at me. I sunk to the floor, my dress billowing around me in creamy clouds.

“Perhaps I shouldn’t have proceeded with our marriage,” he said, “but I needed to buy the house and farm for you, and our marriage finalized the deed, which is now in your name too.”

My heart shredded into a thousand pieces, yet was beating excruciatingly loud. Surely, Mathew could hear it–how my heart was breaking for him. How could I be so despicable when Mathew was so giving?

“Thank you, Mathew,” I whispered, tears stinging my eyes.

He nodded and gave me a quick look, but then his jaw tightened, and he stared down at the twisted cushion. His eyes grew dark, his blond brows furrowed. His jaw line twitched. He appeared to be brutally angry. I didn’t blame him. How could I make it up to him? Or could I?

“I need to inform you about—” He glanced at me. His agonized face made me want to race to him, to comfort him, but then he bore down once more at the purple pillow on his lap with such a grimace, I lost all nerve then, as he continued to talk. “I need you to know the kind of man you’re marrying, Violet. I need you to know the real me, since we are to be partners in life, I need you to know what you are getting yourself in for.”

I cocked my head. I thought he was going to point his finger and tell me he knew about Jacque, but this . . .

“I–I must confess, first, that I’m not a virgin.”

I folded my hands on my lap. “Oh?”

He shook his head. “I meant to wait until tonight, our wedding night, but—are you a virgin?”

I nodded. At least in that regard I had been a loyal fiancé to him.

He slumped his shoulders on a heavy sigh. “I’m a cad.”

“No.”

“Yes, darling, I am. I thought that it would be a good idea to know what . . . making love would be like, so I could . . . please you.”

“That’s thoughtful.” Again, I wanted to reach out to console him, but I couldn’t find it in me to do, since I felt I had become grotesquely ironic: I was jealous. Insanely jealous, and there I sat, the woman who just the night before lay with a man in my bed. Certainly, Jacque kept all his clothes on, and we had only kissed, but—oh,
I
was the cad.