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“Never come back,” she called after him. “Not ever, do you hear me?”
She stood there for a moment staring into the darkness as the barn door slammed shut, then, leaving the pitchfork outside against the wall, she turned back to the tack room.
“How could you?” she whispered, her gaze settling on Angelique. She tucked a stray tendril of damp hair behind her ear. “You knew I loved him.”
“I’m sorry,” Angelique said, looking at the ground.
“You’re sorry? You have betrayed me and that’s all you have to say to me?”
Angelique turned to her, lifting her eyes to meet Sapphire’s. “You don’t want to hear anything else I have to say right now.”
“Yes, I do,” Sapphire challenged, taking a step closer. “I think I have a right to hear what you have to say, considering the circumstances.”
“I’m sorry I let him kiss me, but he doesn’t love you,” she said softly.
“What do you mean?” Sapphire stared at her. “Of course Maurice loves me!”
“No he doesn’t. If he did, he wouldn’t have kissed me.”
“Don’t say that!”
“Sapphire, listen to me. Maurice loves your father’s land, not you. He loves what he thinks you can do to further his situation. He has an older brother, you know. Younger sons do not inherit a father’s plantation, and the family is in debt. If Maurice cannot find a rich wife, he will be forced to find a position in trade.”
Sapphire tucked her hands behind her back and leaned against the wall. “It’s not true. It can’t be.”
“Sapphire, this isn’t the first time he’s tried. Even the first night we met last autumn at the ball, he tried to get me to meet him in the forest after everyone had gone home.”
Sapphire shook her head in disbelief, trying to think back. “But we danced every dance together that night. He said I was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen and that he had fallen in love with me the moment he laid eyes upon me.”
Angelique nodded. “You probably are the most beautiful woman he ever met, but he is not a loyal man. You deserve better.”
“You’re confusing things! You were kissing him. What about Jacques?” Sapphire asked. “I thought you liked him.”
“Ah, Jacques. I do like him, but he has no intention of marrying me. Not that I would have him.” Angelique ran her finger along the edge of a rough-hewn table scattered with brushes and combs for grooming. “Since I am half native, no respectable man will ever have me, no matter how many beautiful gowns Armand Fabergine buys for me or how many tutors he brings to teach me Latin and literature.”
“That’s not true,” Sapphire said quietly.
“It is true and you know it. That’s why Mama left her money to me when she died and not to you. It was so that I would not have to marry. She did it because she knew you would inherit Papa’s land and fortune. She did it so I could take care of myself.” Angelique took a step toward Sapphire. “Do you want to hear Maurice’s plan?”
“What?” Sapphire whispered, tears welling in her eyes.
“He knew
Papa would never agree to allow him to marry you. His plan was to seduce you, and when you became pregnant, Papa would be forced to allow you to marry him to save your honor.”
Sapphire did not want to believe Angel’s words. But Angelique never lied. Not even when they were children and were faced with punishment if they did not confess to some trick they had played on the servants or when they had sneaked away from their governess to swim naked in the ocean with the village children.
“You shouldn’t have done this, Angel.”
“I am what I am, and if you expect more, I will only break your heart over and over again.” Her eyes, now filled with tears, searched Sapphire’s. “Can you forgive me, my sister?”
Sapphire looked away, focusing on the pale light glowing from an oil lamp that hung from a wrought-iron hook protruding from the wall.
They had been the best of friends—sisters—since the day they met. Sapphire had sneaked out of the house one day, abandoning her music tutor to hike in the jungle. On the beach she had encountered two big, ugly stray dogs that had trapped a small, barefoot native girl against a tree. Sapphire had driven the dogs off with a large branch and taken the little girl home with her to have Sophie bandage the girl’s cut knee. They had discovered that Angelique came from a nearby village and that she was recently orphaned. Her mother had died of a fever and her father—well, she didn’t know who her father was—but one had only to look at the face of the eight-year-old to tell that a Frenchman had fathered her. Perhaps Sophie had suspected it might be her husband who had sired her. That very day, Sophie Fabergine had welcomed the orphan into her home and from that time, raised her as if she were a daughter.
Sapphire looked up. “I’m still angry with you, Angel,” she whispered.
Angelique threw her arms around Sapphire and hugged her. “Of course you are. I deserve it and I would expect no less of you.” She walked to the far wall, stood on her tiptoes and turned down the lamp, enclosing them in darkness. “Now come on. Let’s go home.”
