Free Bride of a Stranger (Classic Gothics Collection) by Jennifer Blake Page A

today, she would meet them instead of lying in her bed listening, trying to visualize what they looked like and how they would accept her. Now that the five days were over she would be able to receive visitors as well as be able to leave her room herself. Would Justin’s family resent her? It seemed likely, for none of them had thought it convenient to attend her wedding and of them all, only Justin’s father had been really unable to come to New Orleans. A wedding celebration was an occasion that few Creoles cared to miss in the ordinary way, but these people had ignored the marriage of the man who was in actuality the head of the house and the master of the plantation, even if he was not so in fact. Why else would they have done that unless they disapproved of the woman he had chosen as his bride?
    Claire was just easing her arms into a fresh peignoir when Octavia swept into the room. “Charming, I’m sure. But I would like to know who gave you permission to remove your bandages for a bath? I will have to wrap you up again, you know. Couldn’t you have had Rachel give you a refreshing rub with eau de cologne? You should not be up. I am persuaded Justin will not like it.”
    “What business is it of—” she began, then flushed as Octavia raised an eyebrow. “But surely it cannot matter,” she protested. “He has said that he will carry me out onto the back gallery this afternoon.”
    “The man has no more sense than a moonling. You should lie quietly for at least a month.”
    “Can’t I lie quietly outside? I am so very tired of this room.”
    “An admission you should not make, my dear. All brides should profess to be reluctant to leave their confinement. It is expected.”
    Claire stared at her, caught by the warning tones in her voice and a trace of sternness. But Octavia avoided her eyes, and, with a competent and domineering air that was faintly annoying, whisked her into bed, where she rebandaged her ribs to a tightness that left her panting but did relieve the pain.
    The other woman instructed Rachel in clearing the room, twitched the covers into place, handed her a book, one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s romances translated into the French, then paused in the act of leaving.
    “I didn’t come to nursemaid you, though I am happy to do so. I came to warn you to expect a visit from Helene, and possibly, if she can screw up the courage, Berthe.”
    “Oh?”
    “By all rights your husband should have conducted his mother to meet you himself. It would have been much more comme il faut . But he will not, and Helene can no longer conquer her curiosity. I overheard her saying to Berthe that a visit of condolence would be a polite gesture and a satisfactory solution under the circumstances, and so I am sure the royal visit is pending.”
    “I am glad you told me. The prospect is frightening enough without being caught at a disadvantage by surprise.”
    “Oh, you need not fear Helene or Berthe—” she hesitated as if considering the wisdom of what she was about to say, then a resolute expression passed over her face and she raised her chin. “But perhaps I should warn you: Justin and his mother are not on the best of terms. You would do well to take care. You would not wish, I am sure, to be caught in the middle of their quarrel. Just remember that it does not concern you—you need not fear that it does. It concerns what has happened in the past. It need not trouble you unless you allow it to or unless you allow yourself to become a pawn in their battle.”
    “But I don’t understand. Why should they be at war with one another?”
    “You must wait for Justin to tell you. He will, I imagine, when he is ready for you to know. I cannot interfere. Put it from your mind. If I were you I would think well before I asked at all. There is time enough and more to learn the black heart that lies at the center of the fleur de la pois. ”
    The fleur de la pois —the flower of the pea—the pick of the lot: that had been