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Armand looked up from his chair on the terrace to see Tarasai standing over him, her lovely face lined with concern. He realized then that the sun was about to set and darkness about to fall over his jungle home. He wondered how long she had been there, how many times she had spoken before he heard her. He glanced down at the letter on his lap, fingering it absently. “No. I don’t believe so, ma chère. At least I hope not.”
“I brought you a blanket,” Tarasai said, raising a lovely multicolored patchwork quilt made from squares of homemade native cloth.
“I’m not cold.”
“Put it on anyway,” she said in her lovely, lilting voice. “The breeze is cool tonight.” She took the letter from his lap, laid the quilt over his bony knees and returned the letter to him without looking at it. Not that it would mean anything to her; like most of the native people of Martinique, she could not read.
“Is this letter from your daughter?” Tarasai asked, walking to a burning torch near the French doors that opened into the house. She took a dry blade of grass, lit it and walked back to light the oil lamp on the small table beside him.
Armand realized he spent a great deal of his time on the terrace these days. At first, when his Sapphire, Lucia and Angelique had left, he had tried to go back to his daily routine, visiting villagers, walking the fields, checking in on the drying warehouses, but he no longer had the strength. As his illness grew more severe, and with Tarasai’s gentle nudging, he had begun staying closer to home. Mostly he read, worked on his moth and butterfly collection and simply sat on the terrace listening to the jungle, watching its ever-changing beauty. In the year after Sophie’s death, he had shared his bed with many women—mostly native girls—but lately there had been only Tarasai. Tarasai was the only one he wanted, the only one who did not look upon him sadly, already thinking toward his death rather than celebrating his life.
The oil lamp cast light onto Armand’s lap and the letter. “Are they well, monsieur?”
“Yes.” Again, he looked at the letter, then up at her face—such a sweet face with round, dark eyes. And skin the color of coffee with just a little milk added to it. “Well, I think.”
She waited.
He adjusted his glasses and reread one of the lines Lucia had written. “They are no longer staying with Lord and Lady Carlisle—they have struck out on their own. I will have to send more funds at once.”
“Of course, monsieur.”
“She…says that, sadly, our Sapphire’s father is deceased and there is a new Earl of Wessex, but that they are hopeful the matter of her birth will be resolved.” He said this with more enthusiasm in his voice than he actually felt. For the hundredth time he wondered if he had made the right choice in sending Sapphire away. Just one more year and she would have been wiser, perhaps not quite so innocent and trusting. But this was what her mother, his Sophie, would have wanted…. He had vowed that he would fulfill his dead wife’s dream and he could not lie peacefully in his grave if he did not keep his word.
“You should not worry so much, monsieur. Miss Sapphire is a smart young woman. She will find what she wants. She will have all she wants and more. She is lucky, that one, born under lucky stars.”
He smiled, squeezing her hand. “I would like to write a letter and send it along with a draft from one of my accounts in London.”
“You sit, monsieur, and enjoy your garden.” She rose. “I will bring you ink and pen and paper and then I will bring you soup.”
Armand wasn’t hungry; he was never hungry anymore, but he knew better than to argue with Tarasai. It was easier to just take a few sips from the spoon and pour some out into the garden if he found the opportunity. “That would be nice,” he said, watching her go. “Thank you.”
She turned in the doorway. “You do not have to thank me, monsieur. I thank you for giving me a home and that which I carry under my heart.” She smiled, drawing her hand over her breast and down to her slightly rounded belly.
Armand smiled. It was hard to believe that at his age and in his rapidly failing health, he could still father a child.
Sapphire alighted from the four-horse carriage onto the street in front of the Drury Lane Theatre with the aid of a handsome young baron. Lord Thomas, one of the first suitors to appear on her doorstep after hearing the rumor that the Fabergine sisters were in need of protectors, was presently a student at university, or at least he was, he had explained to her, as long as he was not booted out next week for his latest antics. His father, the Earl of Crumpton, was a member of the House of Lords, his family having served there for more than two centuries.
“Miss Fabergine, have I told you how truly bedazzling you look tonight?” Lord Thomas declared dramatically, pressing his lips to the back of her gloved hand, his smile utterly roguish.
Spreading her skirts, Sapphire glanced down at the jewel-blue fabric of her off-the-shoulder fichu-pelèrine gown and smiled to herself, feeling much like a princess tonight. Her gentlemen escorts were charming and the gown was the grandest she’d ever worn. She just hoped it wasn’t too expensive, especially when she had ordered three more evening gowns from the dressmaker. “You must look the part to attract the caliber of man you’re in search of,” Lucia had explained, seeming to forget that Sapphire’s goal was to gain not a protector, but a family name.
Lucia had written to Armand telling him of their change in housing and was certain finances were forthcoming, but their pile of bill receipts kept inside the desk in their new parlor was growing taller by the day. Armand had sent them with adequate funds to stay with the Carlisles, not to live on their own in London where rents were exorbitant and the price of a pound of tea would have purchased a wagonload of fruit and vegetables in Martinique.
“Lord Thomas!” Angelique called as she appeared in the doorway of the carriage, beckoning him with a fan painted with dancing naked cherubs.
Sapphire turned to see Angelique throw out both arms, allowing the young baron to lower her to the street, his hands spanning her tiny waist, her hands planted on his broad shoulders. Four more gentlemen piled out of the carriage, all dressed similarly in dashing black frock coats and silk top hats. Behind their carriage was another, smaller one, from which Lucia was being escorted by Mr. Stowe.
“Allow me to escort you, Miss Fabergine,” Mr. Carl Salmons insisted. He was a young widower who, though untitled, was supposedly one of the wealthiest men under thirty years of age in the city. He had made his money in the import business and had brought Sapphire a gift of a Chinese painted fan that matched her new gown almost perfectly. A man who had taken the time to discover what color gown a woman intended to wear was the kind of man Sapphire thought she might like to know better. And not only was Mr. Salmons clever, but he was funny and articulate, as well. It was obvious that Mr. Salmons was in search of a woman to keep, but he would certainly take a wife again, she reasoned. Once she was acknowledged as the late Lord Wessex’s legitimate daughter, and the entire “in need of a protector” rumor was squelched, Mr. Salmons might be the kind of man who would call on her…or might even request her hand in marriage.
“Hey, Salmons, I had her first!” Having passed Angelique to the arm of Lord Carter, one of the most eligible young men in London, Baron Charles Thomas took Sapphire’s gloved hand again an
d wrapped it possessively around his arm.
“Perhaps you could both escort me,” Sapphire soothed with a bright smile, offering her free arm to Mr. Salmons.
Angelique winked at Sapphire as she took the dashing Lord Carter’s arm. She had met Henry that night at the reception at the Wessex town house and he had begun calling on her regularly, even before the outrageous rumor that Angelique and Sapphire were searching for patrons reached London’s parlors, men’s clubs and the Royal Exchange.
Lord Carter’s family had made it known that their son would soon be marrying, but it was evident that young Henry was not the least bit interested in settling down with a wife and children in the country. A schoolmate of Charles Thomas, he was too busy drinking, gambling and womanizing, activities that seemed to endear him even further to the adventurous Angelique.
