Zoe Read online

  Zoé looked down at the floor. There was no fight left in her. She just wanted to go home and forget this place. She wanted to forget Julien Charles La Roque.

  “Get up,” Madame said.

  Zoé got to her feet. Like a prisoner in the gallows, she stood with eyes cast down, tried, convicted and now waiting to be sentenced.

  “I shall fix this,” Madame said. “I shall do it for your father, for sweet Marianne, but not for you.”

  Feeling contrite, the girl could only nod. “Oui, Madame.” At the same time, she felt a small surge of hope, a tinge of relief. She should’ve realized that Madame would do anything to protect Marianne and keep this from her husband. Quite possibly, she feared that he would blame her, accuse her of not being vigilant. So Madame had good reason to clean this up. But how would she do it? How could she or anyone else ‘fix’ this?

  It was as if Madame had read Zoé’s thoughts.

  “You will tell Comte La Roque that you will be his mistress—”

  Zoé’s head jerked up. She gasped. “Mais, non!”

  “You shall say you will serve him, but only if he marries Marianne. And you shall tell your father that you can’t bear to be without your sister, that you want to remain with her.” Madame regarded Zoé with blistering fury. “This will be your fate. And it’s better than you deserve.”

  For Zoé, this was worse than anything she could have imagined. It was not only humiliating, but also perverse, and disgusting.

  “But I don’t have to stay here! He wants Marianne. I mean nothing to him. I just want to return home with Papa!”

  Madame laughed. “He doesn’t want Marianne. The man is lusting for you. The only way that Marianne can have the life she deserves is through your sacrifice.”

  Zoé burst into tears. “I don’t want to be his mistress. Je vous en prie—”

  “Silence! You should have thought of that before you opened your legs! Do this or I will tell your father the truth, and force him to accept the offer made by Monsieur Sheridan.”

  Zoé was horrified. She hadn’t even known that Sheridan had spoken to Madame. Now, she knew that the threat to ship her off to America was real. Things had spiraled out of control so quickly. It was unbelievable.

  Madame was smug, but she had overplayed her hand. That last threat pushed Zoé past her breaking point and she retaliated, feeling she had nothing left to lose.

  “What if I tell Marianne of your little plan? What then? ”

  Madame put her face close to Zoé’s. “Go ahead. I will deny every word of it and Marianne will believe me. Better still, she will hate you, for she’ll know that you betrayed her and that you tried to steal her future and make it your own.”

  Madame was right. Marianne would hate her, and perhaps Papa, too. What would he do if forced to choose between her and his white, legitimate daughter? How could she be sure that he would take her side?

  There was no way to get out of this and nowhere to turn. She felt the walls closing in on her. With a cry of anguish, she fled her stepmother’s room. With Madame’s mocking laughter falling on her heels, Zoé ran to her room, her hair disheveled, tears coursing down her face, her skirts billowing behind her.

  Once inside her room, she slammed the door and threw her body against it. She slid down to the floor, overcome with regret and despair. If only she could take back what she had done. Closing her eyes, she wished for her mother, for her own dead maman, to tell her what to do.

  Zoé buried her face in her hands. The life that she had hoped for would never be, and she could blame no one but herself. She had been a fool to believe that she’d ever find a suitor.

  She was to be La Roque’s whore and that was that.

  3 Resting uneasily in bed, Zoé moaned through her soft cries. She had skipped supper because she didn’t want to face Madame. Marianne brought her something to eat but her anxiety over her father’s arrival left her without much appetite. Eventually, Marianne climbed into bed and curled up next to her, holding her until she fell asleep, as they’d done since they were children.

  Zoé sighed, recalling the fading image of her maman. Capucine Draqcor was a striking, dark-skinned African. Capucine’s father, Bakkir, had been captured and put on a slave ship. The ship’s captives overtook it and found amnesty in France. Several Africans chose to settle in the French fishing town for its prosperous shipping trade. Bakkir took on the name Draqcor after arriving in Narbonne. Little was known about him after that. However, it was common knowledge that he fathered three girls and that he died shortly after his wife, Lindewe, gave birth to Capucine. Many had told a young Zoé that her grandfather was considered a leader among men.

  Capucine was considered the most daring and free- spirited of Bakkir’s daughters. Rejecting what was expected of her, she fell in love with the wealthiest man in the village and gave herself to him. This broke her mother’s heart and her bond with her family was forever severed.

  That was basically all that Zoé knew of her maman’s past. She was only six when Capucine succumbed to tuberculosis. Madame had forced her to work in a torrential storm, bringing in all the ripe vegetables from the garden. Maman had never seemed right after that and died some short months later.

  Papa had her maman’s portrait painted and kept it in the cellar where Zoé could go and gaze at it for hours. Zoé savored all her memories of her maman. She could vividly recall getting out of her bed, a side drawer with a fluffy mattress which pulled out of baby Marianne’s bed. Sometimes she would walk eagerly down the dark halls in bare feet in search of her maman. With her long black curls in her face and her thumb in her mouth, she would step down the marble stairs, careful not to lose her balance on her way to the servants’ quarters. Maman would leave the door cracked for her if she was alone and Papa was with Madame.

  Zoé would ease open the door, step inside to see her mother waiting for her. Capucine always wore her thick, black hair in two long braids down her back. Maman had the deepest, most caring eyes, and they sparkled like black diamonds when she saw her baby. Zoé would rush into her arms, and snuggle her breast, loving the warmth it offered. Maman loved to run her fingers through Zoé’s ringlets and sing to her, either in French or, more frequently, in the words of her native tongue.

  It was her most cherished memory. Zoé understood that her mother was Papa’s mistress. Capucine had never said a bad word against him. As much as Zoé loved Maman, she couldn’t understand how she could love a man who kept her in the lower part of the house like a dirty secret.

  Other servants told Zoé that, at one time, Maman had been the lady of the house. They said Papa had stood his ground with Grand-mère and gone public with his torrid affair with Capucine. Then something happened and it all changed. To this day, Zoé didn’t know what caused the reversal, but sometimes she would go to the cellar and find her father in front of the portrait, weeping like a baby.

  The extreme guilt he carried was evident, and Zoé was given every privilege his child could receive. No matter how much Madame or Grand-mère protested, he remained solid in his love for Capucine.

  Turning over in bed, Zoé wept in her sleep. “Oh, Papa,” she moaned. “I am so sorry, Maman.”

  EF La Roque was in his bed also, staring at the draped ceiling of his canopy. Candles lit his room, casting a soft glow and throwing flickering shadows. He knew that Zoé had not left her room since they’d returned from their ride. He asked Marianne before she retired if her sister was unwell, but Madame interjected, assuring him that it was a simple headache and that Zoé would be good as new tomorrow. La Roque knew better.

  Why was he so drawn to her? Especially when he so coveted being a bachelor. There was her beauty, of course. Ah, he could dwell endlessly on her charms, but he knew that her beauty didn’t fully explain his attraction to her.

  After all, he had loved women from all over the world. They had all shared his bed, whether Occidental, African, Asian, Indian, or Arabian. He enjoyed possessing exotic things, thus his obsession w
ith the wildflowers that bloomed in his conservatory. There was a freedom in their uniqueness that helped him see past the complacency that often followed wealth. Zoé possessed those qualities, plus a uniqueness of her own. It wasn’t just their differences that entranced him. It was the way she existed freely in a world that insisted she be constrained. His desire for her intensified each time she withdrew from him or when she stood firm in her convictions. He had to have her. When he took her into his chamber, he thought corrupting her would satisfy this thirst, but it had done the opposite. It had torn open his cold heart.

  His father, Count François Julien La Roque, had suffered tremendously because of his love for a woman who was not meant to be his. The demoiselles had no idea that the château he had shown them and the story he’d told were so personal. Marcela, though beautiful, had been a villager of the most common sort. She worked as a chambermaid for his family. As a young lad, La Roque watched as his father’s obsession with her destroyed his family.

  The La Roque family held the most powerful office in Toulouse and Julien Charles La Roque was, from birth, destined for greatness. His mother nearly died giving birth to him and had been unable to have more children. After she became bedridden with depression over her native Italy, François promoted Marcela from being a maid to an “Abigail,” a woman who worked as a close companion and personal assistant to the lady of the house. He hoped it would bring his wife around, but nothing seemed to work.

  It was then that François, pained by his loneliness and being forced from his wife’s bed, became infatuated with the dark-haired, beautiful Marcela. At first, he found stolen moments to make advances toward her, but when she refused him, his obsession drove him to take her by force. Something in Marcela broke after the rape. She responded to his advances with a sense of apathy. He had her in any way he chose after that.

  By the time Comtesse La Roque recovered from her mysterious ailments, François had placed Marcela in separate quarters, and spent many days away from his family, indulging in his never-ending obsession with her.

  But Marcela was restless and by no means in love with François. She hated him for what he had done to her and punished him by using his desires against him. It drove his father to madness; murdering her was his final act of that insanity.

  Of course no one questioned the fire, but La Roque was present the night of the argument and witnessed what had pushed his father over the edge. The son vowed never to give a woman that kind of control in his life. His view of love was tainted forever that fateful night.

  Closing his eyes, La Roque thought of Zoé. He was hiding behind beliefs he didn’t necessarily share in order to protect himself from giving in to true love, a concept foreign to him. As much as he desired and intended to have her, he was terrified of his feelings for her. She’d been in his presence for barely a day, yet she already consumed his thoughts. He’d even missed a meeting with his banker to take the girls riding. He was acting like a lovesick schoolboy, and it infuriated and frustrated him.

  Emotionally spent, he laced his fingers behind his head, thinking of what Zoé had said in the cottage. Her words echoed that he would never have access to her heart. It was only in that moment that he had realized it was what he wanted. He thought it was merely lust that drove him, but there was more. There was something in the way she bloomed in a garden webbed with thorns. She flourished in the French culture, even though her physical features were a permanent reminder that she was also une femme de couleur.

  Yes, his Zoé was unlike any other. The more life pushed her, the more she pushed back. The way she stood her ground with him was proof of that. He envied her strength and craved her favor. He wanted to possess her heart as she now possessed his.

  He justified the offer to be his mistress. Doing so had restored a sense of control over the situation. He hoped it would protect him from falling deeply in love with her. Yet, knowing how badly his father’s affair had ended, he still worried that he stood to lose greatly in the end. He didn’t understand why he would employ his father’s tactics with this woman, at this stage in his life. All he knew for certain was that he was determined to have a different outcome.

  EF The next morning, Beauregard Bouchard rode in the back of a horse-drawn carriage, en route to Chatêau La Roque. He was in extreme distress, for his financial interests in the shipping trade were failing. It took everything he had to hold onto Marianne’s dowry so that she might wed. He hoped that pairing Marianne with La Roque would forge a relationship that could help him salvage his small empire.

  It was his wife’s suggestion that she take the girls to meet La Roque. She was confident that he would take one look at Marianne and want to make her his bride. At first he’d balked at the idea. He loved his girls, and would rather see them grow old as spinsters than be married off and snatched away from him. Yet, it was well expected that they should wed.

  He had even found a proper suitor for Zoé, which would be his surprise for her. The fisherman overseeing his business had been asking for her hand. He was a young, handsome man, and not the least bit bothered by her color. He wanted to take her to England to wed, where it was legal. Bertrand had even found the means to put together a modest dowry. It wasn’t much, but it would make his acceptance of Claude Chafer’s proposal respectable.

  Sighing, he looked out the window and thought of his sweet, dear Capucine. She was in Heaven, proudly smiling down on him at how well he had protected their child. It could not make up for the horrible way he’d failed her, but it was a start. The driver veered off the country road toward the city, and Bouchard relaxed. He couldn’t wait to see his daughters. EF

  Zoé opened her eyes to the bitter smell of black coffee. Turning her head, she saw Marianne smiling at her while filling her cup.

  “Are you feeling better today? ” Marianne asked, placing the cup next to her on the small bedside table.

  Rising on her elbows, she smiled back at her sister. “Much better.”

  “Bien. I hear that Papa will arrive this afternoon. Isn’t that great news? ”

  Zoé chewed on her bottom lip. “Yes, Chérie. It is.”

  Marianne climbed onto the bed and reached for her sister. Zoé lifted the blanket, and made room for Marianne. She climbed into the bed and hugged her sister tightly.

  “I don’t want to leave you, Zoé. Papa will soon marry us both off, and we won’t be together anymore. Not like this,” she said softly.

  Zoé stroked her sister’s hair and thought of what Madame had proposed. If she were to do what was demanded of her, she would become a whore to Marianne’s husband. Closing her eyes, she sighed. “Maybe, we won’t be separated.”

  Marianne frowned. “What do you mean? ”

  She struggled to find her voice and managed a weak smile. “You will need an Abigail, won’t you? Perhaps I could stay on for the first years of your marriage to make sure that your needs are attended to.”

  “As my servant? ” Marianne said, disgusted.

  “No, as your lady-in-waiting.”

  Marianne shook her head. “No! You must go and have your own life and marriage. I would never impose that on you.”

  The door flew open and Madame strutted in. “Why are you girls still in bed? ”

  “We were talking,” Marianne said with a hint of irritation.

  Madame glared at Zoé. “You rudely missed supper last night. I expect you at the breakfast table.”

  “Oui, Madame,” murmured Zoé.

  Madame eyed her. “Are you feeling better? ”

  Zoé nodded.

  “Very well. Get dressed now. Both of you are to look your best. Wear the dresses I brought you from Paris, and make your father proud of you when he arrives.” She flashed Zoé a meaningful look to remind her of their conversation and of what was expected of her.

  Zoé averted her eyes and Marianne burst into giggles.

  “Really, Maman? We can wear them? ” She hopped off the bed and ran to her mother and hugged her.

 
Madame touched her daughter’s face and kissed her forehead. “Oui. Now hurry.”

  Marianne raced from the room as Madame lingered at the foot of the bed. For a long moment, she studied Zoé.

  “This must be your idea,” she said finally. “If your father is to be convinced, then you must do the selling.”

  “I could tell Papa what you are trying to do and take my chances.”

  Madame nodded. “Yes, but we already discussed that. As far as I’m concerned, you would be doing me a favor. It would ensure that Marianne sees you for what you are and that my husband finally sends you away to America to pick cotton.”

  Zoé sat up. “Why do you hate me so? What makes me so unlovable to you? You are the only mother that I’ve known since I was six, and you treat me worse than one of the servants.”

  Madame took a long look into Zoé’s eyes. “Sometimes you remind me of your mother,” she said softly. “But I don’t hate you.”

  She turned to go.

  “Please wait!” Zoé called.

  Madame froze, but did not turn around.

  Zoé pulled her knees up to her chest, then locked her arms around them. “I will do what you ask of me if you do one thing for me.”

  Madame gave a slight turn. “And what is that? ”

  “Tell me the story of my mother. I want to know the true story of what happened to her. If I am to suffer her fate, I would at least like to understand it.”

  Madame swallowed hard, as if her throat had gone dry. “I… I can’t,” she said, her voice cracking.

  “Is it that painful for you, too? ”

  Madame opened her mouth to say something, but then apparently thought better of it. “Get dressed,” she snapped. “I want you present at that breakfast table.” Then she walked out.

  Tears welled in Zoé’s eyes and slipped down her face. She lay back on her pillow, closing her eyes. Today she would betray herself and her father with this lie. Even worse and even more painful, was that she would betray her dear, departed maman as well.

  EF La Roque sat at the head of the table, watching the doorway for Zoé to appear. He had resisted the urge to go to her bed in the middle of the night, but if she did not appear at breakfast, he would hold back no longer.